Ghosts of LA
by makealist
Summary: James and Juliet get their happy  but not perfect  ever after. They make it off the Island because Kate never goes back. Things come to a head when she inadvertently re-enters their life in 2008. Plus, lots of Miles.
1. When Kate Met Jimmy

**This takes place off-Island during the Oceanic 6 period. Kate's just been hounded by Ben's lawyer, met with Locke, gone to the dockside meetup, lost Aaron at the grocery store, visited Cassidy, but she's come to a different conclusion: She's not going back to the Island.**

When did it start? When Locke came to the house? When she had the dream (nightmare) about Claire? Is she losing it? Like Jack did? Is she being haunted? No. No, those lawyers were _real_. Claire's mother was_ real_. Ben on the dock was _real_.

What is NOT real is any hope of going back to rescue the ones they left behind. Locke is (was) a crazy old man, and Jack needs to get a grip. She is _not_ going back. It's been THREE YEARS. The Island disappeared in front of them. They were gone. There's no going back, and even if that was possible, no way they survived THREE YEARS.

No. The lawyers were one of Ben's mind games. No. Kate is staying right here, thank you very much.

That's not to say when she dropped Aaron off at preschool this morning, she was calm and collected. No, she sat outside his building for at least an hour. Watching – for what?

Thinking about Claire's mom.

_OK, get a grip, Kate. _

She has an hour to kill before preschool ends. She'll get coffee.

She's NOT being haunted. That Claire doppelganger in the grocery store? You know what, she didn't even look that much like Claire. And, minor scare, that older, slightly overweight man in front of her at the ATM is _not_ Bernard. _Get a grip, Kate._

She waits to place her order at the coffee shop. Her phone rings from the depths of her bag. Fishing it out, she has a minor panic attack. Who is it going to be? Aaron's school? Is he OK? Is everything all right? Or Jack? Does he really think he can go back? Or Sun? Those lawyers? She gets the phone, doesn't recognize the number, but does recognize the area code: It's her mother calling. She punches "ignore." Or, shit. What if it's not her mother? What if it's a doctor? Has Diane taken a turn for the worse? Died? And if so, does Kate care?

She stares at the phone a bit longer, waiting for the voicemail chime. It never comes. So was it her mother, and was she too chickenshit to leave a message? Or was it a doctor too courteous to leave a bad news voicemail? Kate sets her jaw. She can_not_ be dealing with this too, on top of everything. She throws her phone back in her bag, misses. The phone crashes to the floor, and when she stoops to retrieve it, the bag spills most of the rest of its contents: juicebox, crayons, wallet, sunglasses. She's fighting tears, squatting on the floor, snatching up the items, as if all this is their fault. As if somehow that tube of Chapstick is to be blamed for the fact that she might very well be losing her mind.

"Looks like you could use a hand." She realizes someone's squatting on the floor next to her, handing over a mostly smushed Apollo bar. She mumbles thanks, takes the candy bar, finishes shoving things in her bag, and stands up. Her white knight stands up as well. His glasses have slid down his nose, and he's using his right middle finger to push them back up. He's tall, so she has to look up to offer thanks again. His black plastic glasses frames are hard to miss, but so are the amazingly bright blue eyes behind the lenses. She wonders why someone with such pretty eyes would hide them. Hasn't he heard of contacts?

"No problem," he says, raking his fingers through his straight, somewhat unruly blonde hair. Now he's looking at her intently, head cocked to the side, something like a smirk on his lips. It sparks a mild glimmer of recognition she can't quite place. He's still looking at her intently, and she can't shake the feeling she knows him. He, too, looks like he's trying to place her.

"Have we met before?" she asks.

"I think I would have remembered that," he says, breaking into a wide grin. Two divots spring to life on either side of his face, great big dimples.

_Get a grip, Kate._

She remembers the Claire lookalike in the grocery store. These lookalikes seem to be everywhere.

_Get a grip, Kate._

He snaps his fingers, points at her. "I've got it!" he exclaims. "You're Kate Austen, aren't you? Oceanic 6?"

Right. She's world famous. She forgets sometimes. No wonder he recognizes her.

"Guilty as charged," she admits.

He laughs. "Funny."

They've reached the front of the line. "Let me buy you a cup of coffee," he offers. She turns him down, she can buy her own coffee. "Come on," he wheedles, half smirks, smiles, and there are the dimples again. "If I'm gonna tell my buddies I had coffee with that hot chick who survived a plane crash, I gotta, you know . . . have coffee with her."

"You could just lie about it."

"I'm a pretty crap liar," he admits. She looks into his open, honest face, wide, clear blue eyes behind thick lenses, and somehow believes him. "How 'bout we go dutch?" he offers.

"All right," she relents.

They place their orders, and she takes the cup of black coffee handed over to her. They take a seat near the counter, waiting for his order. They're still settling in, scooting back chairs, placing bags on the ground, phones on the table, when his order is called.

"Jimmy!" the barista shouts, and Kate's companion jumps up to get his drink.

"Jimmy?" she asks, incredulously, as he returns. "_Jimmy_? What are you – eight?"

He looks bashful, does that smirk thing he did when she first looked at him. Again – some mild ping of recognition that quickly vanishes. "Twenty-eight, actually."

"So, _Jimmy_," she says, placing emphasis on his delightfully child-like name, "What do you do that allows you to hang out in a coffee shop on a Thursday morning when the rest of the world is gainfully employed?"

"Ah. Well, two answers to that question. One," he holds out an index finger as though he's actually keeping track, "I've got a nice little trust fund. And two," he unrolls his middle finger from his palm, he's actually counted out "two" on his right hand "I'm a high school biology teacher – we're on winter break."

"So if you've got all this money and free time, how come you're not traveling the world?"

"Maybe I'm scared to fly," he answers. "Planes crash sometimes, you know." He winks at her. Touché.

You know what? This is kind of nice. She makes fun of his name, he makes fun of her survivor fame. It's fun, this give and take, this ribbing. It reminds her of Sawyer. . . and then Jimmy smiles the big dimpled smile and her stomach flops, crashes.

_Get a grip, Kate._

She wonders if maybe that fake Bernard dude is on his way to her drycleaners where she often runs into a fake Rose. Maybe if she looks hard enough she can rustle up a fake Jin to introduce to Sun.

_Get a grip, Kate._

Jimmy must not notice her unease, because he's still answering her question. "Truth is, my sister's getting married on Saturday, and I'd probably be disowned if I didn't show up for that. Actually, the wedding? It's why I'm here." By "here" he indicates the coffee shop. "It's all wedding drama all the time, and I need a break. My sister's normally pretty level-headed, but she's become a freaking drama queen. Let's see, this morning it was her hair. Apparently, it's too big and frizzy. For which she blames my mom. They were really going at it this morning. Thought I'd keep the peace, I said 'Rach, your hair's always been big and frizzy, you're just noticing today?' So, Rachel storms out of the room, mom looks like she could kill me with her eyes… My dad's no better: 'Oh, my baby's gettin' married. Oh boo hoo hoo. I'm gonna be cryin' like a Goddamn baby.' I just had to get out of there, you know? Besides. I've got my tux. All I got to do is be at the church at 5 on Saturday. Or, shit. Maybe earlier. We're supposed to do family photos."

Kate thinks of Kevin, her wedding, Jack, their engagement. This family drama, this wedding-is-coming-jitters, this give-and-take between mom and daughter and brother and sister and dad and husband and wife. It's something she'll probably never know. She changes the subject.

"So what's it like growing up rich?"

He shrugs. "Wouldn't know, really. My dad was just a campus security guy. My folks got lucky in the stock market. I mean _really_ lucky. Bought a ton of Microsoft in '78. I was in middle school by the time that money started pouring in."

She nods appreciatively. Easy money if you can get it, she supposes.

"Wanna know a little secret?" Jimmy asks conspiratorially, leaning in, looking over his glasses, blue eyes dancing mischeviously.

"Absolutely." What is it? His parents are insider traders? Money launderers for the Mob?

Jimmy reaches down, pulls up his laptop bag, and unzips it slowly. He gestures to his laptop. "I'm a Mac," he whispers, holds up his index finger over his mouth. "Shhhhhh."

"_**That'**_s your big secret?" she joshes him.

"It is when your family's made a fortune being PCs."

"So how come you work if you've got such a big fortune?"

"You don't know my mother. I don't think she'd stand for us to just sit around on our asses all day."

"Your sister?"

"Art conservator at LACMA. Shhhhh. She's a Mac, too. Don't tell."

"Your secret is safe with me," Kate pledges, actually crosses her heart. Ah to have such secrets, she thinks, regretting all the secrets she's keeping, will keep.

"So, you've got a little boy?" he asks, and she tenses, somehow she feels Aaron should be off-limits. "That must be tough," he continues, "on your own and all."

_OK, you can do this, just an innocent conversation. Keep it light. _"My construction truck knowledge is not up to his standards," she admits.

He nods, he understands. "I had a whole fleet of Tonka trucks when I was a kid." He stares off into space, maybe remembering his dump trucks and diggers and bulldozers. When he refocuses, he says, "So, I gotta ask, what's it like to survive a plane crash?"

And there it is. The question she simply cannot answer. What is she supposed to say? That the guilt of it has driven Jack to drink and drugs? That the guilt of it sent Hurley to the loony bin? That the guilt of it causes Sun to pull a gun on someone? That the guilt of it causes her to see ghosts everywhere she goes? She remembers that day. Sun screaming for Jin. Jack's bleeding side, the pandemonium, the sheer awfulness of it all. And of course, the kiss. And Sawyer jumping from the helicopter. Did he survive the swim back? Or did the Island just disappear on him, too? Was he left to drown? Or if he did make it back, what was waiting for him on the beach? No rescue, no communication, just boar and 30-year-old Dharma supplies. How long did he survive?

But wait, no. Jimmy isn't asking about all that. No, he asked a simple question, for which she can provide a simple answer. She'll take it a step at a time.

"Surviving a plane crash?" she begins. "The plane crash part was pretty scary, but surviving was pretty nice."

He chuckles, winds up to ask another question. She'll play it by ear. She'll answer what she can, and she nervously awaits the next question.

Jimmy's phone chirps. He looks at the screen. "I'm so sorry, this is my dad. Gotta take this one." He winces, clearly he finds it poor manners to interrupt their conversation for his call. Little does he know that she feels overwhelmingly saved by the bell.

"What's up Pops? How's it hangin'?" he answers the phone. A loud, steady stream of words from the other end of the phone, expletives included. She misses Sam acutely. Even more, misses a time when she thought he was her dad. She distracts herself by watching Jimmy. He holds the phone away from his ear, rolls his eyes at Kate. She giggles. Jimmy's left arm is crossed over his stomach, and he rests his right elbow on his left hand. She notices the biceps on both flexed arms, the big right hand cradling the little phone.

God, but she feels lost. This nice man. This nice, good-looking man. She feels instinctively comfortable with him, ribbing him, laughing with him, answering his questions. And yet, she can't tell him the truth, can never tell anyone the truth. Besides, most of her heart is still beating for that guilt-ridden, bearded drug addict (she tries to hate him, tries to get over him). Any bit of her heart that's left over probably drowned in the South Pacific three years ago.

She can never see Jimmy again, because if she ever gets too close to anyone, if anyone ever asks too many questions .. . about Aaron, about Aaron's dad (hell, Cassidy even asked one time is Sawyer was his dad). Aaron! She glances at her watch. She needs to go pick him up.

Jimmy hangs up the phone. "Everything OK?" she asks.

"Yeah. Just my dad – letting wedding preps get to him. He's not real good at that sort of thing."

Kate's gathering her things. "It was very nice to meet you Jimmy, but I've got to run," she holds out her hand and he shakes it.

"The pleasure was all mine. Not every day you get to talk to a plane crash survivor."

She smiles, and heads for the door.

"Hey, Freckles," he calls after her.

Her blood turns to ice, and she stops in her tracks. What the hell? Has this all been a game? A set up? Well, you know what? Ben can flood grocery stores with Claire lookalikes and flood dry cleaners with Rose lookalikes and flood ATMs with Bernard lookalikes. He can put some pseudo-Sawyer lookalike in every Goddamn coffee shop in LA, but she is NOT going back. She is not going to do it, and she'll just give this Jimmy a piece of her mind.

"What did you call me?" she spits, advancing on him, anger pouring from her._ If you so much as come near my son_, that's what she's prepared to say next, but Jimmy holds out a hand to stop her.

"I'm . . .I'm" he stammers. "I'm so sorry. I really . . . I didn't mean anything. It's just you've got . . ." he gestures around the bridge of his nose and his cheeks with his index finger. "You've got . . ." he cringes. "Well, freckles, right around here. I'm so sorry."

He looks so honest and abashed. Wide blue eyes and the glasses that hide just how pretty they are. A loose-fitting t-shirt that gets just tight enough around his shoulders and upper arms. His laptop with his big, oh-so-secret Mac inside. Poor guy.

"No, I'm sorry," she apologizes. "Just something I'm sensitive about."

"You'dve thought I would've learned my lesson making fun of my sister's hair this morning. Anyway, you left your phone."

He hands it to her, and she takes it. "Bye, Jimmy. Nice to have met you."

"Ditto," he says, and waves, but it looks half-hearted. No wonder, she just about assaulted him over a nickname.

She leaves the coffee shop, picks up Aaron. She's not going back. She has to decide what to do, if anything, about Claire's mom, but she's not going back. These lookalikes can't haunt her forever.

On Saturday, she thinks about Jimmy and his family. Hopes he made it on time, didn't miss family photos. Would he take off his glasses? Would his sister get her hair under control? Would his dad keep it together or lose it walking her down the aisle? She pictured a first dance, a father-daughter dance, Jimmy asking his mother to dance, and pretending to be reluctant and bashful about it.

Maybe she should call Kevin, he'd tried to get in touch when they first got back. Maybe she could call Sam. It buggs her that she'd have to lie about Aaron to him. Damn the lies. She wishes she could have Jimmy's life. Not the money, Oceanic gave her enough of that. She wants the easy familiarity. She wants to rib her dad on the phone, tease a sibling, take family photos. She wants her big secret to be the kind of computer she used.

She wants a "real life," and she fears she's never going to get it.


	2. Whatever Happened, Happened, Pt 1

**Well, when I started this, I meant for it to be a one-shot. I didn't get a whole lot of feedback on it, but almost all the feedback I did get was, can you write more? I actually liked this little world, so there's a little bit more that can be told.**

**1998**

Rachel, driving, coughs, sniffles.

"Sick again?" Juliet asks. "You should get that checked out, sis. How many colds has this been?"

"You try working at a pre-school, see how often you get sick. Little germ factories."

Juliet stares out the car window.

Rachel breaks the silence. "You've got a husband, you know."

"Don't start, Rach."

"I'm just saying, if someone has to take you to the airport, don't you think it should be him?"

"Did you not hear me? Don't start."

God, she's stressed enough as it is. This grant – if she can get it – means freedom. A little bit, at least. She'd probably still need Ed's lab, his facilities, but the grant money would be hers alone. She's been thinking about leaving him, just needs to pull the trigger. But her work is so important to her, and if she leaves now, he'll cut her off completely. He'll blackball her in the research community. But once she gets this grant . . . well, she doesn't need him quite so much anymore.

She stresses out the whole flight to LA. Non-stop. Nice. These folks are paying her to come out there. That's got to mean something, right? She's really got a chance at this.

She waits in the lobby. Twiddling her thumbs. She's got to get this grant. Got to.

"Dr. Burke?"

She rises.

"Hi, I'm Alan Smith. I represent the Foundation."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith." She shakes his hand, and he escorts her to a conference room.

She sits across from him at the conference table. Usually a team of researchers sits in on these things, but Mr. Smith opens a binder, and begins.

"So, you think you can get a male field mouse pregnant. What for?"

This was clearly spelled out in the grant proposal. Never mind. She needs this money. "Well, my ultimate goal would be to restore fertility to infertile women. I think the process would be something similar. If I can show that this is possible, then I'd like to expand to human research."

"Mmm hmm." Mr. Smith is reading a handwritten note clipped to the file. "Have you considered a testosterone bath for the beta antagonists?"

No. No she hadn't. But, hum. Geez. Now that's a fantastic idea. It could work. Why hadn't she thought of it? What does Mr. Smith know about this? "I hadn't considered it, no. But it's a very good idea. Why. . . Where. . . " She wonders where he got that idea from. Is he a researcher, too? And well, "I've been wondering," Juliet starts. "I didn't submit a proposal to your foundation, Mr. Smith."

"Please, call me Alan. My clients are very interested in your research. I'm just a lawyer - do what I'm told. This note on the file says 'ask her to consider a testosterone bath for the beta antagonists.' That mean anything to you?"

Juliet wonders if this is some kind of test. How she will respond to outside suggestions? Is she open to new ideas? God, she is so awkward, sitting here with her big hair, twisting her hands. So much more comfortable in the lab. Does she really have to go through this to get the money? "Well, um, yes, actually," she starts. Does he want her to explain this to him? He _just said_ he's just a lawyer.

Alan's phone rings. She appreciates the reprieve. He finishes his call. "Well, this is unexpected," he says. "He wants to meet you. Do you mind sitting tight for a little bit?" Juliet shakes her head. Whatever it takes, she figures. "Want some coffee?" Alan asks.

"No, thank you."

Juliet sits, waits. Who wants to meet her? Why is it unexpected? Is this all part of the game?

After what seems an eternity, the door opens and an older man enters.

"Dr. Burke, so pleased to make your acquaintance," he smiles at her. He's one of those men who've aged well, tall, still slim, silver hair swept back off his high forehead.

"Likewise," she mumbles, stands up to shake his hand. He holds her hand a little bit longer than is comfortable, smiles at her again, looking her right in the eye. Ew. Is he hitting on her? No, he's practically old enough to be her father. He's just a harmless old man.

Chill out, chill out. And who is he? The big wig, right? The money man? And did he say his name? No he didn't. Should she ask? Is this a test, too? Testing her confidence. Well, that's a test she'll fail.

"Please, sit," he waves her down, sits across from her, smiles again. He's got a _nice _smile, she thinks.

God, she feels uncomfortable. Why isn't he asking her anything?

"We think your research is potentially groundbreaking," he says. She nods. He nods back. What now?

Awkward silence.

"So, fertility research is something you're interested in?" she finally asks him. This grant is for $750,000. He's got to be at least a little bit interested to drop so much money.

"More my wife's thing," he answers, a twinkle in his eye.

She nods. She wonders if they had fertility issues in their younger days. Most people who give money to this field do, or have. But, seriously, how are you supposed to ask politely about that? _So, had trouble knocking up wifey back in the day, huh?_ She lands on, "Do you have kids?"

"Two," he answers. "Son and a daughter." He pulls out his wallet, and hands over a dog-eared photo of two twenty-somethings (late teens?) on a beach. She glances at the photo, up to him. He's watching her uber-intently. Weird. What's she supposed to say? He seems like he needs her to say something about his kids. They're nice-looking. If they were 10 years younger, she could go with "cute kids."

"You must be very proud of them," she manages. Lame lame lame. Why is she always so awkward in situations like this?

"I am," he grins. "They're great. Smart like their mom."

The way he says it is kind of weird. Is that supposed to mean something to her? She just kind of nods. What the hell? More awkward silence.

"Well," he says. "Thanks so much for your time."

That's it? She flew all the way out to LA for this? She failed some kind of interview test, didn't she? Was she supposed to act more excited about his kids? More confident? Was she supposed to flirt with him?

"Where are you staying?" he asks.

"Oh, I'm not. I'm flying back on the red eye."

"Nonsense. We can put you up in a hotel room. It's not a problem."

"Thanks, but I better get home. I don't think my husband would want me gone too long."

He grumbles under his breath. Crap. She probably just failed something else, too. Well, if she isn't going to get the grant, might as well go all out.

"Really, please – stay," says Mr. ? Shit. Why didn't she know his name? Did he say his name and she just missed it? She can't ask now, can she? Awk Ward.

"Oh, no no no. Really, I must get back," she's flustered now. Her benefactor mumbles under his breath again, and she could swear she hears the words "deserve better," and her anger flares a bit. What does he know, really? Who does he think he is knowing her business like this? And it's just like this morning in the car with Rachel all over again, and it makes her want to cry, because Rachel's right, and this gentleman is right, even though he doesn't know her from Adam.

She's got to get out of here. Before the tears start flowing in earnest. When she looks up at the rich dude, he looks so kind, and, God, she misses her dad, and now he looks like he could probably hug her. AND GEEZ. Embarrassing much?

She gathers her things, mumbles a few apologies, and backs out the door.

Real good, Juliet. Totally blew that one. She drinks most of the flight home. What now?

To her total surprise, she hears back from the foundation the next week. The grant is approved. She serves Edmund the divorce papers the next day.


	3. Must Love Dogs

Kate's just fine with her decision not to go back. Or she tells herself she is. It's reinforced every night when she tucks Aaron in to bed. What would have been the point in going back?

In the days immediately before and after her decision, though, things got so weird. She saw "them" everywhere – Claire, Sawyer, Rose, Bernard . . . And, yes, of course, she did feel guilty for leaving them all behind, but that had been three years ago. Three. Years. She didn't exactly have much (any) faith they could have survived.

Things got a lot weirder when the rest of the Oceanic 6 "crashed" on Ajira 316. She couldn't believe it. She knew they hadn't crashed. No way. She'd seen too much weird shit on that Island to believe that. What she couldn't believe was that it had worked. They'd made it back there, hadn't they? What other explanation was there? And did they find what they were looking for?

The press was all over her: _Kate and Aaron Austen, the only remaining survivors of Oceanic 815._ She "no commented" her way through a handful of press gaggles set up on the lawn, and eventually they left her alone.

By the time things got back to "normal," she'd stopped seeing ghosts everywhere. No more dream Claires stalking Aaron's bedroom or Claire wannabes roaming the aisles of the grocery store. No more taller blonder Sawyers sipping coffees and giving her shit. Even fake Rose who works at the drycleaners now looks a lot younger and thinner than Kate remembered. Everything's cool.

One Monday evening in early September, she takes Aaron to the dog park. They come here often, but this is the first time a man chasing a golden lab, stops, approaches her, and says, "Kate?"

She looks up at him. He's tall, wearing sunglasses and a Detroit Tigers ball cap pulled low on his head.

"Kate Austen?" he tries again.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Kate Austen, survivor of Oceanic 815 blah blah blah. Her fame had been slowly fading until Ajira "crashed." All spring and summer she'd had to again deal with the notoriety.

"Who wants to know?" she reflexively asks in her best "back off" tone.

The guy's dog is shoving a slobbery tennis ball up against his hand. He absent mindedly wipes his wet hand against his jeans, ignoring the dog. "Uh, my name is Jimmy. We met at . . . Knock it off, Jefferson!" He yells at the dog, takes the tennis ball, and heaves it across the park. Jefferson shoots off after the ball, and Kate can feel Aaron's excitement. He loves watching the dogs chase balls.

And, yes, now, of course, she remembers Jimmy. He's the Sawyer doppelganger from back in the day when everyone she met was someone from the Island. He's looking at her expectantly, takes off his hat to run his fingers through his hair, takes his sunglasses off and hooks them on his t-shirt collar. His hair is shorter than she remembers, and she stares at him now, wondering why he reminded her so much of Sawyer back then. He's taller, thinner, blonder, bluer-eyed, more polite . . .

"Yeah, of course, I remember," she says. "Your sister was getting married, right? How did that go?"

He breaks into a wide grin, glad she remembers. And . . . there it is. He has dimples. That's what it was. That's why he reminded her of Sawyer. That and the fact that back then, everyone reminded her of everyone.

"Went off without a hitch. Thanks for asking," he answers. Jefferson's back with the tennis ball. Jimmy takes it, winds up, hurls it even farther than the last time. "So, which one is yours?" he asks, indicating the dogs running rampant around them.

"None," Kate answers. "Aaron wants a dog, I don't. So, this is our compromise for now."

"Ah. Gotcha. Been there myself, actually." Jefferson's back again. Jimmy's squats down to Aaron's eye level. "Wanna throw to him?" he asks, looks up at Kate. "Is that all right?" She nods, and Aaron throws the ball.

The dog and Aaron seem occupied for the moment. Kate asks, "What do you mean 'been there myself'? Do you have kids?"

He laughs. "No! God, no! No, I meant I wanted a dog and my mom wouldn't let me have one. We lived in Michigan when I was a kid. I think the big hold up was no one really wanted to walk a dog in the winter."

"She compromise by taking you to the dog park?"

"She compromised by letting me get a turtle. Not a bad compromise, actually. I had a terrarium, got to keep her in my room – my turtle, not my mom."

Kate laughs. "Yeah, but a turtle can't fetch a ball." She looks at Aaron, still giddy, and throwing to Jefferson.

"Well, now," Jimmy responds. "Don't be so sure. Rousseau had quite a few tricks under her shell."

"Your turtle's name was _Rousseau_?" Kate keeps it light. Here we go again. _You know what, Kate? Not everything has to be about the Island._

"Yeah, guess we had a weird thing about naming pets after famous thinkers. Hell, we even named the squirrel trapped in our attic after one."

"Yeah, who's that?" _Please do not say John Locke._

"That was. . ." Jimmy trails off, scrunches his face, trying to remember. "That was Edmund Burke. "

"I don't even know who that is," Kate states, relieved. Never heard of the famous version, never heard of an Island version. Phew! Island naming crisis averted!

"I'll spare you the history lesson," says Jimmy. "Besides, poor Edmund didn't last but a week or two in the attic. My dad eventually had to exterminate him." Jimmy looks over to Aaron and the dog. "Jefferson here is just keeping the family tradition alive. I think. Although it's also possible he's named after George and Weezie."

"You don't know?"

"He's my sister's dog. I'm just keeping him while she's on vacation."

"Where's she?" Kate asks.

"Lake Geneva. Swiss Alps – lovely this time of year."

She looks, but he's not kidding. Ah, that's right, she remembers. The guy comes from money. Didn't his parents start eBay or something? Something with computers, she remembers that.

Jimmy glances at his watch. "Well, nice to see you again, Kate. I gotta run. I have a stack of papers waiting at my apartment, and they ain't gonna grade themselves."

Aaron whines a bit when Kate tells him to hand Jimmy the ball and say thank you, but he finally relents.

"You're welcome," Jimmy responds. "I've got Jefferson to the end of the week at least. Maybe I'll see you around."

She and Aaron go back to the dog park on Tuesday and again on Wednesday. She looks anxiously and nervously at the people here, the people biking up, walking, parking their cars. Why didn't she watch to see what Jimmy drove? Or rode? Or did he walk here? Aaron loved playing with the dog – that's why she's so eager to see Jimmy again. That's what she tells herself, anyway.

Aaron's disappointed on Tuesday. He asks if the "the Turtle Man" will be back (Kate thinks Jimmy's mom's idea is a pretty good one. Aaron even seems amenable to the idea of a turtle). But, Aaron is even more disappointed on Wednesday. Kate is, too. Aaron had so much fun with Jefferson. That's all. That's the only reason she whips her head around anytime she hears a car door slam in the parking lot. Did Jimmy go home and remember how she acted so weird at the coffee shop? Is he avoiding her?

They go back on Thursday, and Kate's less jumpy. The guy isn't coming, and that's that. They're at the park no more than five minutes, though, when she sees Jimmy and Jefferson approaching from the parking lot. Jimmy's wearing the thick, black plastic glasses she remembers from the first time they met.

She risks, "We missed you the last few nights." But then hedges with, "Aaron's anxious to play with Jefferson."

Jimmy is already handing the ball to Aaron, but Aaron holds up his own tennis ball – he's brought it the last few nights. _Thank you, Aaron, for backing up my cover story,_ she thinks.

"Sorry to disappoint," Jimmy says. "Last night I had a date, and the night before that, I went to the Dodgers game with my dad."

Kate is disappointed. Maybe even jealous. He was on a date. _Oh, freaking get over yourself, Kate._ She sort of can't believe she feels this way. She's met the guy twice. Spoken to him for all of ten minutes. He's got every right in the world to go on a date, for crying out loud.

"So, how did it go?"_ Please say it was horrible. _

"Eh." He sounds underwhelmed. _Good. Great! _"Dodgers lost, but it was a nice night. Got to sit in the stands and drink beers with my dad. All in all, not a bad way to spend an evening."

"Not the baseball game," she says. "The date."

He cuts his eyes to her, smirks a little bit. Damn. He knows her game. He knows she's interested. How is it some guys can do it and others can't? Sawyer could do it. _You ain't gotta use me Freckles, all you gotta do is ask. _That man could see right through her. Jack? Jack could not. God, she loved . himLoves him. But damn if he had to have it all spelled out for him. Always so anxious, jealous … why couldn't he just tell? Why couldn't he just look at her and know what she was feeling? Why couldn't he do that?

At least this Jimmy's got Sawyer's touch. He's totally on to her. "The date," he starts, slowly, dragging out the answer. "The date," he repeats and smiles, he's got her hooked now, and he knows it. Finally he answers, "The date was kind of a bust. She was a little too . . . " He's searching for the word. "Peppy. A little too peppy for my taste."

"Sorry to hear it," Kate says. She's totally not. He knows she's totally not.

He laughs. "I shoulda known what I was gettin' into. She's a cheerleading coach, after all."

Aaron and Jefferson are standing here now. Jimmy clips on Jefferson's leash. "Well, listen, I'd better run," he says.

She wonders if he has another date, another ballgame with his dad, papers to grade. What? Why's he gotta jet out of here so quick?

"My sister gets back on Saturday. Don't know if I'll be in the park anymore. It was nice to meet you, Aaron," he reaches out to give Aaron a high five. He turns to Kate. "So, do world famous plane crash survivors give out their numbers to random guys they meet in the park?"

"Oh yeah, all the time," she answers. "You may be the only guy here who doesn't have my number."

He stands staring at her. His face is perfectly still, his eyes perfectly blue. Is he going to ask? He keeps staring. He wins. He doesn't need to ask. She quotes the number to him, and he enters it into his phone.

"All right, Amelia Earhart, I'll give you a call." He walks off.

"Amelia Earhart didn't survive her plane crash!" Kate shouts after him.

He just smiles and laughs, keeps on going.


	4. Whatever Happened, Happened, Pt 2

**So, it's been pointed out to me that you can't leave an anonymous review on my stories. I think that's b/c when I started this, I was too chicken to receive flaming anonymous reviews. Now I realize everyone here is very nice, so I've enabled that feature now (sorry to The Lurk that I made you create an account. You can delete it now!)**

* * *

**April 8, 1994, Ann Arbor, Michigan**

James pulls into the driveway, parks, and gets out of the car. He can hear the lawn mower buzzing away in the side yard. Good. Sounds like Jimmy finally quit whining about the chore, and just shut up and got to work. Jimmy seems to think they have enough money to "pay someone else to do the dirty work." He's right – they have more than enough. Juliet, though, insists that the kids do their work and don't get spoiled. "I'd hate for them to turn into rich assholes, who think the world owes them something." She's right – James has known more than a few rich assholes, and he'd be disgusted if one of his kids turned into one.

The mower sounds louder, and he sees Jimmy coming around the side of the house, with his Discman clipped to his belt, and earphones clamped on his ears. It's either Pearl Jam or Stone Temple Pilots, and most of James' fellow parents get all "kids these days" about their teenagers' music choices, but, hey, somewhere out there is a 25-year-old Sawyer who likes this "kind of trash."

Jimmy registers James' presence, cuts the motor, and takes off the earphones. James braces for another rant on why Jimmy shouldn't be stuck doing such hard labor. So he's pleasantly surprised by "Wanna shoot hoops when I finish?

"Sure thing," he answers, even though he's anxious about it. Back when Jimmy was little, James sometimes "let" him win. Lately, though, James has to go 100%, and even then, it's been pretty close on a few occasions. Jimmy's just turned 14, and already nearly as tall as James. Any day now, Jimmy's gonna beat him for real – and basketball isn't even his sport! He's a hockey guy, but James can barely skate, so they've never gone one-on-one on the ice. Shooting hoops, though . . . James feels old. Damn, when did he get to be so old?

The lawnmower starts up again, so James turns his attention to the car. He carefully takes the big "Happy Sweet 16, Rachel!" sheet cake from the backseat, and shit . . . when did his baby girl get to be 16 Goddamn years old? And, well, he's got (will have?) another daughter out there somewhere. And who knows how these wonky time things work, but at least as far as he's concerned, she was conceived 24 years ago.

James sighs heavily, heads in through the garage, and into the kitchen. It's just . . . the way he lived life, used to live it . . . he just never really thought of himself ever getting old. Not that he's complaining. It sucks that any day now his son is going to beat him in basketball, but the thought of missing that, or missing his daughter's sweet 16 party . . .

Juliet's in the kitchen chopping up carrots and celery sticks for a veggie tray, and this is_ definitely _something they can afford to buy. Shit, Rachel's getting a BMW, for Christ's sakes. A _used_ BMW, but still, if they can afford that, they can certainly afford to buy a veggie tray at the grocery store. And it ain't like Juliet's gonna turn into a "rich asshole" at this stage in life (heh. At least she's getting old right along with him).

He deposits the cake on the counter.

"Miles is driving the car by 30 minutes after the party starts," Juliet informs him.

The car – Rachel's BMW – has been just one of many negotiations as they adjust to their wealth. They knew it was coming – maybe they should've thought of it all sooner. Now they are trying to decide do they want to stay in Ann Arbor (the winters are a bitch), how luxurious should they get, how much should they keep, how much should they give away …

James catches his reflection in the kitchen window. God, it's grayer than he thought. He turns to the mirror on the hat rack by the garage. He's staring at his reflection, and he sweeps his hair back off his forehead. That hides the gray somewhat, but makes the receding hairline at his temple all the more prominent. And, damn, he doesn't want to be so fucking vain, but hasn't he gotten by most of his life on good looks? Or at least in his former life? And, Juliet may love him for who he is and blah blah blah, but, come on, let's be honest . . . didn't he at least get his foot in the door because of his looks?

"You OK?" She's standing behind him now, and they make eye contact in the mirror.

He tries to come up with some excuse, but what the hell, ain't no reason to lie to her about this or any other damn thing. "Just can't believe our baby's gonna be 16. Makin' me feel old. Hell, I even look old."

She wraps her arms around his waist, and rests her head on his shoulder. "You look fine to me," she says.

"Well, thanks, but it ain't like you're a completely unbiased source."

"Maybe not, but I do think you look good. I think you're one of those men who . . ." she trails off, and raises her head from his shoulder, looks at him, hard, in the mirror.

"One of those men who . . . what?" he leads. She doesn't answer. She's still staring at him in the mirror. "Who what?" he asks again.

"Ages well," she practically whispers.

"Said with such enthusiasm," he chides.

She lets go of him, and kind of stumbles back to sit at the kitchen table. He's worried now.

"Juliet? You OK?"

She's looking at him, but not really looking at him. "We've met before," she says.

He crouches down beside her. Shit – what's going on? Is she having a stroke? Not old enough for that, right? They aren't _that_ old. What the fuck is going on?

"You realize who I am, right?" he prods.

"You gave me the grant – to do the field mice study," she says, dully.

"Uh," he clears his throat. "It's me – James." Jesus, please, Juliet . . . please, be OK. He tries to make a joke that really isn't a joke: "Father of your kids?"

Her had flies to her mouth. "My God. You showed me their picture!"

He can still hear the mower running in the yard. Jimmy will be out there for a while. Rachel's on a babysitting job and won't be back until her party at 2. Good. They can't see her like this. Not till he figures out what's going on.

"Baby. Listen, you're kinda freaking me out here. Please, say something that makes sense."

She looks at him now, _really_ looks at him, like she knows who he is. The scared tone of his voice has penetrated her fog.

"I'm OK, James. Nothing's wrong. You remember my field mice project?" He nods. "I got started on that because I got a $750,000 grant. When I went out to LA to interview, you – an older version of you – interviewed me."

James sinks to the floor. "You're sayin' we met before?"

"I'm saying I met you . .. I guess you haven't met me yet. But this is what's got to happen."

James whistles. "$750,000? That's a shitload of money. I don't believe it. I ain't givin' away that much dough."

"Well, you give it to me, so it's not like it's actually going to leave the family. It's what gave me the kick in the butt to leave Edmund, if that sweetens the pot any."

It does. "All right then. You're tellin' me that in 4 years, I'm gonna get to meet the young you? Sweet. Did I hit on ya? Did we make out? 'Cause I'm thinkin' it ain't exactly cheatin' if it's just a younger version of you."

"You saying I'm too old for you now?"

He chuckles.

She continues. "No. We didn't make out, and no, you didn't hit on me – not really. You did act kind of strange, though."

"Well, yeah." Because . . . well, how is he not going to act strange when he meets this younger, pre-Island, pre-_them_ version of her?

"But I did think you were good looking."

He smiles at that. "So, I've still got it, huh?" He puffs out his chest.

"I also thought you were old." He deflates a little bit, then rests his head in her lap.

The door from the garage bursts open. There's Jimmy, backward ballcap, all tall and gangly, huge puppy dog feet and hands. How tall is this kid going to get? He sees James on the floor, with his head in Juliet's lap.

"Everything OK?" he asks.

"Yeah, fine, son" James answers, while Juliet nods.

"So, we gonna play ball, or what?" Jimmy asks.

Sure enough, it's the first day he beats his dad fair and square.

* * *

**Happy Thanksgiving!**


	5. Lean on Me

As promised, Jimmy calls. They make plans to meet for lunch, and Kate actually feels excited about this. If she's ever going to move on with her life, she has to start somewhere and why not with a nice guy who happens to be incredibly good looking, aside from the nerdy glasses? Even those, she realizes, are popular with the hipster crowd.

She's to meet him at his school and is a bit early, so she walks in the front door, and decides to track him down. Except . . . well, she has not the first clue how to do that, or where to even begin to look. She stops a skinny, pimply kid in the hall.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for a friend of mine – Jimmy?"

The kid looks at her blankly. Of course, Jimmy's got a last name. Of course, that's what the kids here call him. Too bad she doesn't know it. She tries, "He's a teacher. Tall guy? Blonde hair? Glasses?"

Recognition lights on the kid's face. "Oh, you mean Mr. LaFleur. He's on the science hall." He points the way.

Kate peers in the window in the door. Jimmy's at the front of the class, writing on a whiteboard. He seems engaged, and most of the students do as well. He's wearing jeans (she's never seen him in anything but. Then again, this is only the 4th time she's seen him), a button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows, a loose necktie. He'd be your stereotypical high school science teacher, if the stereotypical high school science teacher was insanely hot (in a kind of dorky tall, poor eyesight kind of way).

She sees Jimmy turn to face the class, and in the same movement toss his whiteboard marker to the back of the room, expertly plonking the one sleeping student right in the nose. Great aim, she thinks, and how'd he even know the kid was snoozing, she wonders.

"Care to join us, Sleeping Beauty?" he asks the kid, who blinks, snurfles, shakes himself awake.

"Good aim, Mr. LaFleur!" another student cheers. Kate's getting a kick out of this secretive look into Jimmy's work life when the bell rings. Holy Jesus, it's freaking loud, as is the sound in the classroom when the students jump up, start talking, gathering books, heading for the door. She jumps out of the way as they come barreling out, headed for lunch.

When the classroom is empty, she looks in and sees Jimmy gathering papers, stacking them, stuffing them into a satchel. She quietly opens the door and slips in.

"Hey, you," she gets his attention.

He stops putting the papers in his bag, looks up at her, and blinks behind his glasses. She hasn't seen him since last week at the dog park. She forgot how pretty his eyes are. Is "pretty" even the right word? It seems too feminine for this guy.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, glancing at his watch. "I thought I said we'd meet at the front office at noon."

"I was running ahead of schedule," she answers. _And, Jimmy, if you're looking for a girl who always does what she's told, you're barking up the wrong tree, mister._

He blinks again, knits his eyebrows. He looks concerned. "It's just . . . it's school policy," he says. "Visitors are supposed to check in at the front office. It's for the kids' safety."  
He's getting worked up, higher and higher pitched, his eyes widening, head shaking. "I mean, shit . . . I could lose my job." He's really agitated now. "If they found out I have a felon coming back to visit me . . ."

What? What gives him any right to say that? He knew about her past when he asked her out. Hell, it probably gets him off to think he's living on the edge. She's sorry he's worried about his job, but . . . Jesus! OK, she's made some pretty terrible mistakes, but she'd like to see how he'd react to her life. She grew up thinking her dad was one man – an upstanding, law-and-order, hardworking type. Only she found out that wasn't who her dad was at all. No, her dad was a grade-A asshole, petty criminal, womanizer . . ._Yeah, Jimmy, let's just see you get up on your high horse when you've got to deal with crap like that._

She manages to say, "Sorry," in a tone that indicates she's anything but.

He stops his frantic babble to stare at her. He's not blinking. How pissed is he? Or is he going to apologize to her? He's just going to stare? For how long? Why doesn't he move his face? She starts to get uneasy, shifts her weight, clears her throat. And just like that, he breaks into a huge grin, and barks a laugh.

"I'm totally just messin' with ya," he says.

"Oh," she sighs, relieved.

"I mean, it_ is_ school policy, and I probably _could_ lose my job . .." Well, crap. Wait. Is he really messing with her? Is he serious now? "But fuck it, right? Rules are made to be broken." He slings his satchel over a shoulder and heads for the classroom door.

Kate is rooted to the spot. What just happened? He was kidding, right? Pulling her leg? But then he seemed so serious. How did he turn on a dime like that? And isn't she supposed to have the upper hand here?_ She's_ successfully evaded US authorities for years. _She's_ survived a plane crash. _She's_ been chased through the jungle by a smoke monster. _She's_ internationally famous. _He's _just a high school science teacher. How is it that she's the one off kilter? How did he do that?

He standing at the door to the classroom. "You comin'?" He asks. He's standing there with his thumb hooked into his satchel's shoulder strap, and he's smiling his dimpled smile, and he's cute, and now one of his eyebrows raises up, he looks at her sideways._ I know him. _That's what she thinks. _I know him. _Which is impossible.

"Yeah," she answers, and finally convinces her feet to move. They walk through the school, and for a second she's worried he's going to take her to the cafeteria for lunch, but he escorts her outside. He mentions a sandwich shop they can walk to. The day is gorgeous, sunny with a light breeze, and by the time they reach the café and get their food, she's no longer uneasy. In fact, she's spent the entire walk talking about Aaron's new class at preschool. He's having trouble moving to the 4-year-old classroom. Jimmy nods at the appropriate time, asks probing questions, and . . . this is so nice. She's glad she's here. Glad she's telling him this. Glad he asked her out. And then he manages to go and deflate her happy mood with this:

"His dad have much to say about any of this?"

_Well, no, Jimmy, and neither does his mom, because this is all one big huge fucking lie, OK? _She shouldn't be mad at him. She's _not_ mad at him. She's mad at her whole stupid lie of a life. She doesn't want to keep lying, but what the hell is she supposed to say?

"I'd rather not talk about him." Because she has no clue who he is, for one thing.

Jimmy nods, takes a bite of a French fry. He doesn't ask a follow-up question, just sits there thoughtfully chewing his food. She feels kind of guilty. She changes the subject. "So, what made you want to become a teacher?"

He wipes his fingers on his napkin, takes a sip of Coke. "Well, I always liked science growing up. Actually, I always wanted to be a doctor. So, I did Pre-Med at Stanford, but . ."

"But what?"

He closes his eyes for a second before answering. "It sounds terrible, but, well . . . do you have any idea how much doctors have to work?"

"I do, yeah," she answers, sadly.

"Crap," he says. "There's me tripping over my big mouth. I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

"It's OK," she says, and she wills Jack out of her mind.

"Anyway, I just. . . just don't like to work that hard. I mean, there's something about putting in a good day's work, you know? But at the end of the day, I guess I just like to sit on my ass with a beer and read a good book. God, that sounds horrible, doesn't it?"

"Not at all." For once she feels like she's being completely honest. She's thinking about Jack again. Still. Of course. He could never just relax. Never. Everything had a purpose. Even on the Island – golfing, ping pong, poker . . . it was just to prove a point, or to be a leader. Then back home, he'd read to Aaron, and she'd think he'd finally relaxed, was finally enjoying himself. But, no. Even that was a test: could he be a good father? She thinks about Sawyer, too, and how it seemed that much of the time sitting on his ass reading a book was about all he ever wanted to do. There is a happy medium, thank you very much.

Jimmy asks an innocent question about her childhood, and she answers, but doesn't want to share too much. She realizes this is how it has to be. She doesn't want to talk about her childhood, or her life on the run. She wouldn't mind talking to him about the Island, but that, too, is off limits, shaded in lie.

Instead, she constantly shifts the conversation to him, and by the end of lunch she feels like she knows him totally: he played hockey as a kid. He still plays in a rec league. Justin Timberlake plays on an opposing team, and Jimmy gets a kick out of the groupies who come to the matches. He has a scar that neatly bisects his left eyebrow. It's pretty deep once you notice it, covered as it is by his glasses. No, not a hockey injury. His older sister clonked him on the head with a cut-glass candy dish when he was six. He broke up with a long-term girlfriend about a year ago. "She broke up with me, actually. Her skeezy ex came back into town and poof! Not interested in me anymore." His sister once dyed her hair purple, and his dad hit the roof. No, he never did anything like that to piss his parents off. He did spend a night in jail after a bar fight in college, but his sister bailed him out, and kept the news to herself. "She still sometimes uses it against me when she wants something." Like watching her dog for a few weeks while she and her new husband vacation in Lake Geneva.

They walk slowly back to the high school, and he escorts her to her car. He's got his hand pressed firmly against her lower back, and she wonders if he's going to kiss her, right here in the visitors' parking lot. He doesn't, though, just gives her a kind of half smile/half smirk and says he had fun. "I did, too," she says. Honest again. Her words convert his smirk to a full-on grin, and there's something about it that just kind of makes her stomach flip.

"Let's do it again sometime. Maybe totally off school grounds?" he asks. She nods, and fumbles for the car door. He smirks again. He's got her number, but good. He can tell the effect he has on her, and he walks off with a kind of half wave.

Their second date is four nights later. He shows up at her front door, and she's right out to meet him. Aaron's inside with the sitter, and as much as he keeps asking about "Turtle Man from the park," she's not ready – yet – for there to be another man in his life.

Jimmy's dressed in a dark suit, no tie, and he somehow looks older, more sophisticated, dressed like this. He's not wearing his glasses tonight, and his left cheek is swollen and a dark purple. "Hockey fight," he shrugs, when he catches her noticing it. Fact is, it lends a sexy air of danger to him. He's got several days' stubble, too (she presumes his cheek is too tender to shave). He walks her to his car, with his hand firmly at her back again. She notes it's a Lexus. She sometimes forgets he's rich. Something about the way her carries himself. He doesn't act like any of the rich assholes she's known.

He opens her door for her. As they drive to the restaurant she quickly realizes he's an aggressive driver, with more than a bit of leadfoot. Well, she supposes, no one is perfect.

He holds the door open for her when they reach the restaurant. Holds her chair for her, stands when she excuses herself to use the restroom. Stands again when she returns. "Someone taught you good manners," she teases.

"Good manners and soft words have brought many a difficult thing to pass," he singsongs, in a manner indicating he's had this aphorism drilled into him.

She chuckles, indicates his face. "So, the guy who gave you that? Soft words didn't work on him?"

"Can't help that some folks are just sons of bitches," he answers.

Dinner is lovely. After their lunch, she decided to stock up on easy conversation topics – movies, books, funny Saturday Night Live skits. Anything but talking about herself. He's funny, in a kind of dry, understated way, and despite his wealth, despite his education, she feels comfortable with him.

The drive home is just as fast and aggressive as the drive to the restaurant. He curses under his breath. Combined with the hockey injury, his bar fight in college, a few other things she just can't put a finger on . . . it's like he's got this mild undercurrent of danger, that's neatly pinned down by a pretty face, polite manners, and a Stanford education.

They reach her house, and he parks in the driveway. She wonders for a second if he'll lean over and kiss her, but he cuts the engine, and is out of the car already, crossing in front to open her door for her (of course). He walks her to the front door. The sitter's left the porch light on.

Kate has butterflies. Like she's 15 and on her first real date again. Is he going to kiss her at the front door? Is he nervous? Is he going to stammer around, hem and haw? No.

"I had a great time tonight," he says, and just like that, leans in to kiss her. No hesitation, no hemming and hawing. Just pure self-confidence. He deepens the kiss, his hands at her hips, pressing her up against the door. She realizes, maybe for the first time, exactly how big he is. He's tall, yes, but his weight leaning against her, he's not a small guy. And his hands on her hips? Huge. Her mind is wandering to what else that could mean when his tongue slips into her mouth.

Holy hell, he's good at this, and he smells fantastic, something almost familiar that she can't quite place. He's going to try to convince her now to let him in, right? To pay the babysitter and get her to leave. He's leaning in on her, the weight of him large and heavy, and she needs to _think_. Will she let him in? Probably. Should she kick him out before Aaron is up in the morning? Definitely. It's so hard to think, though, as his hands slip just a bit lower than her hips.

He stops kissing her, moves his head back a few inches. God, his eyes are just as blue up close and personal as at a distance, and they are _definitely_ his best feature. He's going to ask her now. She's going to say yes. It helps to think ahead, be prepared . . . if you want to keep the upper hand.

"Tonight was great," he starts. She doesn't respond. Keep him guessing a little bit (as if he couldn't tell how great she thought it was when she was responding to his kiss). He steps back, breaks contact completely, removing his hands from her ass. "I got things planned all the rest of the week, but if you're not busy next Tuesday . . ."

"Sure," she answers before he even has a chance to finish his question. And, fuck, so much for keeping it cool, keeping the upper hand.

He beams at her. God, he has a great smile, and, OK, she's partial to dimples, she's self-aware enough to get that, but . . . forget the eyes. No, his smile is his best feature.

"All right, then, I'll call you," he says, and turns back to the driveway. Damn. That's it? He's not asking to come in? Because she wants him to. She actually opens her mouth. She's going to call him back, ask him to come in "for coffee." Yeah, right. He's already at his car, though, opening the door, getting in. He waves at her through the windshield, then starts the ignition. He's got his right hand on the headrest of the passenger seat, his head twisted around backwards, and he backs up, and out of the driveway.


	6. Whatever Happened, Happened, Pt 3

**1998**

God, he feels like such a fraud in this suit. Always has. Put on the suit and you become the slickster. He stares into the mirror, adjusts the lapels, smoothes back his hair. He stares into his own eyes. He checks under the stalls again. Just double checking to be sure he's alone in this public restroom.

He talks to himself. "You can do this. You can do this." He fiddles with his cuffs, clears his throat. "Ain't nothin' but lyin' to a woman about money." He squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. "Lyin' to a chick about money. Time to get your Sawyer on, buddy."

He leaves the restroom, heads for the elevator. Wipes his sweaty palms on the front of his pants. Jesus. _Just lyin' to a woman about money. Just lyin' to a woman about money. Just lyin' to a woman about money._ He repeats it over and over in his head. Of course, it's not just lying to a woman about money. He actually thinks he's probably not going to have to lie at all. He's not planning to do anything but tell the truth. Not the whole truth, of course.

He reaches the 15th floor, greets the various lackeys, receptionist, attorney. They're fawning all over him, and he is trying to pretend like the big wig, but he's too antsy for small talk. Let's get this started. Come on. _Just lyin' to a woman about money. Just lyin' to a woman about money._

Finally, the small talk is over. The attorney escorts him to the conference room. "Want me to join you?" he asks.

"Naw, I can handle it, thanks."

"I'll be down the hall if you need anything, sir." And he leaves.

James stands at the door. Exhales deeply. Slicks his hair back again. _Just lyin' to a woman about money. _Here goes.

When he opens the door, she turns to look at him, and it almost takes his breath away. _Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit. OK, don't blow this. Be cool. Be cool._ And, God, she was right. Her hair is enormous. He'll make a big deal of this tonight.

"Dr. Burke, so pleased to make your acquaintance," he smiles at her.

"Likewise," she mumbles, stands up to shake his hand. He clasps it and shakes, but he can't quite let go. She's so young. Jesus, she's so young. He smiles at her.

She smiles back, but it's an awkward, embarrassed smile. She clasps the top of her blouse, leaving nothing but her neck exposed. And it's not as if the blouse was incredibly revealing to begin with. He first thinks, _I know what you're hidin' under there. Better'n anyone._ His next thought is to wish once again that Rachel inherited some of her mother's modesty and awkwardness. She has Juliet's body and James' self confidence, and it is NOT a combination to sit well with a dad. And now, he thinks, _Fuck, this Juliet here with him now? She ain't that much older than Rachel. Jesus Christ._

Is he supposed to introduce himself? Juliet couldn't remember. She'd tried to talk him through this meeting, but for her, this happened 30 years ago. She couldn't remember much. Should he say his name? But then what if she remembers it? Fuck. What should he do? He starts to panic. _Get your Sawyer on. Sack up, buddy._

"Please, sit," he waves her down, sits across from her. He turns on the super-high-wattage smile. As much for _his_ confidence as anything. Also, to impress her. He knows this works. It's worked on her for a quarter century. Then again, it's been more than a quarter century since he's used the smile on a woman who's never met him before, which, technically, she is.

He watches her intently. They've been preparing for this for two years, the two of them. Juliet going over and over in her mind, trying to remember something, anything, about meeting the nice older gentleman who gave her the big grant. Now the moment is here, and he just can't fucking believe it. It's her. It's her, sitting right there, and . . . and she looks so nervous and confused. He realizes he can tell exactly what she's feeling. Not because he's lived with her for decades, but because her emotions are right there, clearly displayed across her features for all the world to see. No poker face. No hiding. That would all come later.

He doesn't know what to say, but wants to rescue her from the awkwardness he knows she's feeling. "We think your research is potentially groundbreaking," he says. She nods. He nods back. What now?

Awkward silence. Problem is, "potentially groundbreaking" strains the limits of his knowledge and understanding.

"So, fertility research is something you're interested in?" she finally asks him.

Leading up to this meeting she's been trying to explain to him what this research was. Or will be. She's even written little notes for the lawyer to pass on to . . . to herself. James, though, knows she plans to – will – knock up a male mouse. And . . . that's it.

"More my wife's thing," he answers, and he can't stop a real smile.

She nods, then asks, seemingly apropos of nothing, "Do you have kids?"

Ah! This is it! _This_ he is prepared for. _This _she remembers ("You showed me their picture"), and so he's prepared. He pulled a photo off the fridge this morning when he realized the only photo in his wallet that had Rachel and Jimmy both was at Jimmy's recent high school graduation. No problem, except Juliet's right there in the middle of it. He couldn't show her that. Although, for a second, he'd thought it would be fun.

"Absolutely not," Juliet said when he floated the idea.

"Yeah, I'm sure you'd see this old biddy, and the first conclusion you'd come to is that it's an older version of yourself having gone back in time and birthed two kids who're now teenagers."

He got a cold stare in response to that. "Old biddy" was probably a bit too much.

"Two," he answers (talking now to young Juliet). "Son and a daughter." He pulls the picture from his wallet, it's smudged and the ends are bent over. It's been on the fridge for nearly a year now. Jimmy and Rachel on the beach right before she went back East for school. They'd beaten some friends at volleyball, and were posing, victorious. A friend of Rachel's took the picture (James and Juliet usually avoid the beach. "I'll never figure out why we had to move to LA, you guys hate the beach so much" – Rachel).

He's almost shaking, handing the photo to her. She glances quickly at the photo, up to him. And, can't she see? Not that they're her kids, no, that's too weird, _but look at them_. . . she's looking at him now, not the picture, and he's looking back at her. Not seeing her, though. Just flashes of his life. How his knees went all wobbly when he found out Rachel was on the way. The way her little hands would feel around his neck when they were sticky. Juliet holding baby Jimmy, staring at him so intensely, blue eyes matching blue. Jimmy with blood pouring down his face, Rachel holding the candy dish with "OH SHIT" written all over her face. Sitting with Juliet in the principal's office after Rachel got in a fight with some kid who made fun of a retarded kid. Jimmy with both hands thrust in the air after scoring the winning goal. And day-to-day moments, back and forth to the library with Rachel. "Son, get those big clodhoppers off the furniture." Not that James ever cared that much, but Juliet is a big stickler for manners.

"You must be very proud of them," says young Juliet, snapping him from his reverie.

_Hell, yeah, got that right_. He thinks of Rachel on her summer internship in New York and then school in Rhode Island, and he's proud of her, and misses her, and he ain't never heard of RISD before, but apparently it's big damn deal, and Jimmy's going to Motherfucking Stanford University in a few weeks. _How 'bout them apples?_

"I am," he grins. "They're great. Smart like their mom." He says it just because he can, and it's kind of funny, but it also kind of chokes him up. She nods at him, and she's looking at him like he's a little off. Like he told her he couldn't speak English but started right up with perfect diction.

OK, maybe he's taken this too far. Time to get out while the getting's good. "Well," he says. "Thanks so much for your time. Where are you staying?" he asks. He's asked the _real _Juliet (or the older one, the one he knows, whichever, you know, not this one standing right here in front of him) did she remember how long she stayed in LA, what sights did she see? But she never seemed to answer the question.

"Oh, I'm not. I'm flying back on the red eye."

That's stupid. Didn't she just fly out here this morning? Shit, money's no object. They can afford to let her stay. "Nonsense. We can put you up in a hotel room. It's not a problem."

"Thanks, but I better get home. I don't think my husband would want me gone too long."

He feels like he's been hit, he's actually reeling. "_**I'm**_ your husband," he grumbles as low as he can. "Not that lame douchebag." He catches himself, though. _Don't blow it, don't blow it. Don't blow it._

"Really, please – stay," he offers, in his most polite tone. _Good manners and soft words have brought many a difficult thing to pass._ Ain't that what she's always telling the kids? Ain't that what she said to Rachel after the fight at school? And he saw Rachel roll her eyes in the rearview mirror, but kept it to himself. Soft words don't always cut it, and you can't help that some people are just sons of bitches. Like, say, Edmund Burke.

"Oh, no no no. Really, I must get back," she's flustered now.

Because what? Jesus! He starts muttering again, "You fucking deserve better." She's out of the chair, and gathering her things, and crap, looks like she's on the verge of tears, and _Oh, sweetheart, it is gonna get so much worse._ _Rachel's gonna get cancer, and you're never gonna see her again, and Ben, and the Island, and _. . .

This sweet, young, near-tears Juliet is standing there, and he just wants to hug her because she's practically his daughter's age, and she's going to turn into someone who doesn't wear her emotions right there on her sleeve, and it's so very sad what's facing her. He wants to hug her and tell her, "Listen Blondie, it's gonna get so much worse, but it will get better. It'll get so, so much better. I promise ya."

She has her things now, though, "Thank you for your time, sir," she murmurs, and backs out the door.


	7. Adventures in Babysitting

"I really appreciate this, Cass," Kate says, pulling Cassidy's bag from her trunk. Clementine's run into the house already.

"What are friends for?" Cassidy shrugs it off, Clementine comes running back out. "Where's Aaron?" she shouts/asks.

"He's at a friend's. He'll be back later tonight."

Cass and Clem settle in before Kate runs upstairs to get ready. "I'll be about half an hour or so. If Jimmy gets here before I come back down, keep him entertained."

"Oh, I see what you're doing here – you say you need me to babysit, but what you really brought me here to do is evaluate him."

Kate rolls her eyes. No, Cassidy is here to babysit for tonight, but "Well, I mean, if you happen to form an opinion . . ."

Cassidy laughs, cuts her eyes to Clementine, coloring at the coffee table. "You realize I have horrible taste in men, right? We've gone over this, I'm pretty sure."

Kate laughs. "And the longer we sit here and argue about it, the better chance he's gonna show up before I'm ready."

Cassidy glances at her watch. "Maybe he'll be late."

Kate shakes her head. "No, he'd consider that bad manners."

Kate stands under the hot shower, stretching it out a bit longer than necessary. OK, truth is: #1 she is hoping that she needs a babysitter _**all**_ night, and who else to trust but Cassidy? And yes, #2 she's got her head so mixed up over this guy, she really does need an outside opinion.

It's just a rebound thing, she knows that. But she's ready to rebound. Well, not ready, but she _wants_ to be ready, and lately she's started letting the Island mess with her head again. Not running into those crazy ghosts everywhere, not that. But in her dreams, she's been dreaming of the people left behind. Claire, of course, always Claire. Last night, Sawyer with those dumb glasses. Juliet, weirdly, and even more weirdly playing hockey . . . no, no, she wasn't getting back into this. So what if Jimmy's a rebound? He's nice, he's good looking, he's fun. . . and most importantly, she needs to start putting the Island far, far behind her.

* * *

Cassidy sees his car pull into the drive. Kate's just turned off the shower, so guess who gets to entertain the new guy? She's actually pleased. She never met Jack, and if Kate wants her opinion on this guy, she'll get it.

He rings the bell, and she peers at him through the peephole. In that distorted view, all she sees clearly is khaki pants, black glasses, and a bouquet of flowers. The first impression is, quite honestly, "dork." Opening the door to him doesn't do much to change the impression, because he clearly isn't expecting a stranger.

He stammers a second, recovers. "Hi, I'm here for Kate. I'm Jimmy." He sticks out his hand, and she shakes it. He's not just tall. He's a big guy, and his hand is huge and warm, and she notes that his forearm is well-muscled.

"Cassidy," she says, smiling at him.

"Nice to meet you, Cassidy," and he smiles back, and holy crap. She thinks it's the glasses that do it – that just scream "DORK," because, ignore them, and, yeah. Yeah, oh my god, yeah - she sees what Kate's been going on about. Wow.

She escorts him in. "Have a seat," she offers. "Kate's still getting ready." They can both hear her blow drying her hair.

Jimmy settles in. She should rescue him, ask him something about his teaching or something. But he looks awkward again, too big somehow for the chair he's in, with his flowers beside him. She doesn't want to rescue him just yet. Let him sweat. Does she have a problem with men? Maybe. And she supposes she shouldn't make this one suffer for the sins of another, but, hell, it's fun.

He clears his throat, glances at her. It looks like he may have something to say, but Clementine barrels down the stairs.

"This is my daughter, Clementine," she introduces them.

Jimmy actually stands up to shake hands. "Hey, I'm Jimmy," he says.

Clementine sits down, makes herself at home, and surprising Cassidy, asks Jimmy, "So, are you gonna marry Aunt Kate?"

Cassidy swallows her surprise along with a guffaw. Clem can be a pistol when she warms up to you, but she's usually pretty darn shy around strangers.

Jimmy's eyebrows shoot up over the rims of his glasses. One of his eyebrows, she notes, is neatly cut in half by an angry looking scar. She wonders if this is why he wears the glasses – to hide that. And how did he get it? Jimmy shifts in his chair, hems and haws. This is fun. Cassidy secretly high fives her daughter. And Kate wants an opinion on the guy? Well, for one thing, it's kind of charming how _not slick_ he is. This question has clearly flummoxed him.

She watches him blink rapidly a bunch of times, then his face goes completely calm. It's like he's got a handle on this awkward thing. He's back in control. This must be the version Kate sees.

"Well, what did your Aunt Kate say?"

"I'm asking _you_," says Clem. Cassidy just sits, blown away. What in the world has gotten into her shy-around-strangers daughter?

Cassidy finally jumps to Jimmy's rescue with a stern "Clem . . ."

"But, Mom," she whines.

Now Jimmy jumps in. "So, you're Kate's sister?" he asks, looking to Cassidy.

Again, much to Cassidy's surprise, Clem answers for her. "Kate's not my_ real _aunt. That means Aaron isn't my real cousin. I don't have any real cousins."

"Yeah, me neither," commiserates Jimmy.

"Do you have fake cousins?" Clementine asks him, and Cassidy is just going to sit back and watch, because she's enjoying not having to carry the conversation with Kate's new beau, and even more enjoying watching her daughter so completely open up to a stranger.

"Fake cousins?" asks Jimmy. "You mean like_ imaginary _cousins? Robot cousins, maybe?" He's playing Clem's game.

Clem giggles, charmed. "No. I mean like Aaron is my fake cousin," she answers.

Jimmy considers for a bit. She appreciates the time he's taking to make her daughter feel important. "Nope, can't say that I have any real cousins OR fake cousins."

"Well who do you spend Christmas with?" Clem asks. "Don't you get to hang out with any kids for Christmas?" _Does she not realize Jimmy is an _**adult**_? _thinks Cassidy. _I mean, his name is absurd, but he's a grown man, for crying out loud._

Jimmy plays along, though. "Just my sister, I guess."

_Well thanks a whole hell of a lot, Jimmy. God damn. Damn damn damn damn._ This is Clementine's big big big thing. She wants a sister. Not gonna happen.

"I wish I had a sister," says Clem. _See? See? See what you've talked yourself into Mr. Jimmy_ … what was his last name? Something French.

"You want mine?" says Jimmy, so easy it almost makes Cassidy want to cry. Why can't all men be so good with kids?

"How old is she?" asks Clem, as if the offer is serious. As if Jimmy has some little kid sister he can trade to Clementine.

"She's thirty," he answers.

Clementine sniffs, makes a face. "That's OLD," she says.

Jimmy laughs. A genuine, fun (totally hot, OK, Kate's not kidding about this guy) laugh. "It _**is **_old," he says. He leans in to Clementine, conspiratorially, "She's also married, and has some totally boring job at the art museum." Clementine is rapt. "And when she was about your age, she gave me this," he raises his eyebrows again, points at the scar at his eyebrow. "So, you wanna take her?" he asks again.

Clementine's smile is so big right now. God, Cassidy needs to make sure Clem knows that most men are OK. She doesn't tell her much about her dad. "He died," is about all she needs to know. How in the world can she let her know that her dad was the biggest freaking asshole of all time, but most men aren't that bad. She can picture it now: "Remember when Aunt Kate had that boyfriend, Jimmy? He was a nice guy, wasn't he?"

And here is Kate now. Jimmy stands to greet her. He offers her the flowers.

"Are those for me?," Kate asks.

"Most of them are," says Jimmy. "You didn't tell me you had company." He turns to Clementine. "What's your favorite color, Clementine?"

"Yellow!" she says, excitedly.

"Hmmmmmmm… "he looks carefully at the bouquet. There are a bunch of yellow flowers in there, but he's taking his time. He pulls out a daisy. "For you." He hands to Clementine.

She takes the flower with stars in her eyes. She's speechless. "Thank you," Cassidy mouths to Jimmy. He shrugs his shoulders. "Eh," he says (no big deal).

Kate takes the bouquet. "Let me put this in water," she says.

"I'll take care of it," Cassidy takes it from her. Kate hands it off, and Cass gives what she hopes is a discreet thumbs up. Kate's met a good one. She knows Kate's been calling this one a "rebound guy," but as far as rebound guys go, she's caught a good one.

**Pardon mis-spellings and editing mistakes. I'll blame this one on my husband who's been whipping up pear martinis. Yummy! And sure he has an ulterior motive plying me with delicious alcoholic drinks, but who cares? **

**Merry Christmas, everyone! I'm trying to write short chapters so that updates aren't too much of a wait, but now I signed up for this Secret Santa thing, and have to write that . . oh boy pressure, and me drunk on pear martinis. So, probably (but who knows) Secret Santa update before the next bit of this.**

**Oh yeah, for Christmas you can review my story because reviews are fun and I need validation for my poor ego.**


	8. Whatever Happened, Happened, Pt 4

**State Penitentiary, 2000**

Sawyer waits patiently for the C.O. Wednesday mornings – his shift at the prison library. Stack up all the requests on a cart, push the cart through Cell Block D, hand the books out, pick up the returns, put 'em on the shelf. And if he can get it done in a jiffy, he can sit and read in the library till his shift's up. Here's to hoping no one on Cell Block D wants a book.

8:30 the C.O. comes to spring him. He walks in front, C.O. behind, ready to drop his ass with a Taser if he tries something. Into the library. He reads the checkout list. Not bad; he should finish this up in under an hour. He wanders the stacks – not much, but it's a damn prison, what can you expect? The cart's all packed up, and he trundles it off to Cell Block D. Checks in with the officer there, pushes through the corridor, handing off books.

Some of his fellow inmates start up chit-chat, ask about books, whatever. He's not really in any mood for small talk today. Another letter from Cassidy came. Came – and got returned unopened. What does she have to tell him that he ain't already told himself already? He's an asshole? She hopes he rots in hell? She can't believe she trusted him? (all part of the game, babydoll). Nope, he don't need that shit. The letters have been coming fast and furious of late, and just as fast and furiously returned unread.

She put him in here, didn't she? Fine. He deserves it, but why the fuck can't she let that be the end of it?

He's handed the last book off the cart, and pushes back to the library. He's only got five returns to shelve, so he figures he has a few hours to just kick back in the comfort of the library to read.

Until he actually enters the library. Well, damn. He sees four big cardboard boxes. Dammit. Why on his shift? Why? He knows what this is. Some do-gooder charity donating books for the "good and edification of the prison population." Yeah, right. What it really is is some church or old-folks home lookin' for a tax break by donating old books. He's been through this before. Open that first box up, get a whiff of dust and mildew and attic or basement. There's bound to be at least three or four books on bridge strategy in there. Because, yeah, you know who sits around playing bridge all day? Not inmates.

And who gets to log them all in? Inventory them? File them? Who's not going to spend the next few hours on his ass in a comfy chair with a good book? Inmate Ford, that's who.

Mr. Taylor waves him over. He's the librarian, and James has to wonder who you gotta piss off to become a prison librarian. And don't say "Maybe he **_wants_** to be a prison librarian. Maybe he thinks it's for the good of the inmates." No, because Taylor is a fucking prick. Even to, especially to, the inmates who work for him.

Taylor doesn't even bother to make eye contact as he hands over a clipboard. "Log 'em in, Ford. Log 'em in and file 'em. And don't bother trying to steal any before they get on the inventory list."

"Wouldn't think of it, boss," Sawyer snarks. Like he's really jonesing for some good bridge tips or an ancient annotated book of Paul, or whatever the fuck old, used up, worthless books this particular charity's donating.

He rips open the top of the first box. His head actually jerks back in surprise. Three brand-new copies of Steinbeck's _East of Eden_. He nods to himself, impressed. Marks them on his clipboard. _Of Mice and Men._ Sweet! _Farenheit 451_. _Slaughterhouse-Five. A Clockwork Orange. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. 1984. Lord of the Flies_. Holy crap. And all brand-fuckin'-new, too.

He pulls each one out. He feels like a kid reaching into an over-full stocking, wondering what amazing find he'll pull out next.

Mr. Taylor wanders over. Sawyer usually avoids Taylor as much as possible. Guy's a total jerk, but he can't help it. "Where'd these all come from?"

"Some rich broad from L.A. called up a few weeks back, wanted to donate some, and this is what she sent."

Sawyer reaches in again. _The Great Gatsby_. Jesus. He was starting to run out of worthwhile reading, but he's only about halfway through the first box and figures he's gonna be set for the remainder of his sentence.

"I should find that broad's contact info," Mr. Taylor says. "She's probably got some prisoner fetish. And that's your thing, isn't it Ford? Hot, rich women?"

Mr. Taylor in his tweedy, threadbare jackets. Sawyer would love to knock his lights out. Taylor wouldn't know what to do with a rich, beautiful woman if she came right up and threw herself at his feet. Idiot. Lot of good knocking Taylor's lights out would do. Get Sawyer fired from library duty, that's what it would do. So, he just ignores the needling.

"I think this chick had to be in her 60s, though," Mr. Taylor keeps picking. "But it's the money, you're after, right Ford? I bet you could squeeze your eyes real tight while you're doing her, and think about the cash. Or maybe she's got a daughter."

For some reason, _that_ makes Sawyer really, really, really fucking angry. Like, unreasonably so. Taylor ain't saying anything that's not true. He _does _target rich chicks, and yeah, _of course _he prefers the young ones. They're easier to manipulate for one thing, hotter for another. So, this . . .it shouldn't be making him as angry as it does, but these people have been nice enough to donate some books, some real, high quality, new, first-class books to this motherfucker's library, and he's gotta act like this about it?

Sawyer just swallows hard. He's not rising to this asshole's bait. No sir, not when the library's just been upgraded like a thousand percent. So, he goes back to the box and pulls out _The Old Man and the Sea_ and _A Farewell to Arms_ and _Around the World in 80 Days._ . .

The second box is full of Stephen King. _Carrie_ and _Cujo_, _The Shining_ and _The Stand_. He flips down the box flap to read the return address. "The LaFleur Family Foundation," some PO Box in L.A.

_Well, aren't they nice folks?_ 'Bout time someone decided to donate some nice books to the prison, instead of the crap they normally get. He runs his fingertips over the address label. "The LaFleur Family," he reads to himself. It sounds kind of nice, even as he imagines them in their white dinner jackets and cocktail dresses, drinking martinis and chortling along with all the other Muffies and Buffies and Sports and Chips out on the verandah at the Country Club, discussing their polo ponies and stock portfolios or whatever it is rich assholes go on about.

Mr. Taylor catches him there, with his fingers rubbing over the return label.

"Stars in your eyes, Ford?" he asks.

Sawyer recovers, "Nope. Just wonderin' what kinda pansy-ass name 'LaFleur' is." Sometimes the only way to converse with this jerk is to be a jerk yourself.

"Creole, I think," is the answer.

Huh. Sawyer looks at the label one last time. "LaFleur" he kind of mumbles under his breath, trying out the sound of it, and starts inventorying the Stephen King box.

_LaFleur._ It just kind of worms his way into his brain, dormant. And really, honestly, he doesn't think of it again. It's just in there, just waiting. Then one day, just like it wormed its way in at the prison library, it worms its way out in the Dharma rec room. And when it does, he doesn't even remember how it got there in the first place.

"_So, why don't you tell me who the hell you are." _

"_My name's James Lafleur."_

**Anyone know where Sawyer was in prison? New Mexico? California? Florida? **


	9. Dirty Dancing

**I didn't have time to polish this one up because I just wanted to get it posted before Christmas and then get to work on my Secret Santa fic. So, it may be rough in parts, or just blah, but I'm still psyched about the direction it takes the story in.**

They're sitting in Jimmy's car, still in Kate's driveway. He's turned the ignition, but still has his hand on the parking brake release. He turns to look at her. "So, listen, no pressure, and if you're not OK with it, just say so, but how 'bout we have dinner back at my place?"

That sounds just perfect. This is their third date after all, and why did she get Cassidy to babysit, if it wasn't because she wanted (hoped) to stay out all night? Besides, going to dinner? Well, there are always just times when she gets that "Kate Austen? Oceanic 6, right?" from some random fellow diner. And if not, she feels people looking at her, whispering about her, even when they're not. So, yeah, dinner at Jimmy's sounds PERFECT. Except . . . how desperate does she want to seem? Doesn't she want to make him work for it? Just a little bit?

He's staring at her with his head tipped back, kind of looking down his nose at her, eyes narrowed. "Come on," he says. "Just dinner."

"All right," she answers. "Dinner." He breaks into a huge grin, turns to stare out the windshield, releases the emergency brake. She kind of chuckles, too – she's pretty sure they just agreed to a whole lot more than dinner.

* * *

His place is nice. A high rise apartment with views of the city. Even more than the views, she notices a delicious smell. "Something smells good," she remarks.

"Baked ziti." He points to the oven.

She's not sure whether to be charmed by his confidence, or pissed at his presumptiveness. "And if I'd said 'no' to coming back here for dinner?"

"You didn't." He grins.

"But if I did?"

"You didn't."

OK, she's maybe a little bit pissed, but a little bit turned on, too. Where does he get the balls big enough to act like everything's a sure thing? Unless he's just putting up a false front? He's doing that thing now where he stares at her and she just can't tell what's going on. He points to the ceiling. _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ She shakes her head, widens her eyes, raises her palms.

Jimmy smirks. "My upstairs neighbor. He has a key. I was supposed to text him if it was a no-go. He was gonna come down and get the ziti himself."

Kate laughs, and it feels so good. All right, so he didn't think she was a sure thing. Probably does now, though, given that she is, indeed, here in his kitchen. He's pulling carrots, peppers out of the fridge. "I've got to make salad."

"No rush," she says. "Can I help?"

"Help yourself to some wine," he points to a bottle on the counter, two glasses. "Pour me some, too, and then just make yourself at home."

He's busy chopping, and she's sipping wine, staying close to him in the kitchen. She peruses his refrigerator door. And for one quick second, she's back at Tom's house again, looking at family photos on a refrigerator. But no. Jimmy's more Spartan than that: A printed-out hockey schedule. A magnet with the schedule for the just-finished Dodgers season, another for the just-started Lakers season. A bunch of takeout menus. Toward the bottom and off to the side is a photo of Jimmy in a tux. And, well … crap. Not just Jimmy in a tux. Jimmy in a tux with a woman. Kate's heart falls just a wee bit. His ex-girlfriend, huh? She shouldn't be jealous. She's got a framed picture of Jack in her entrance hall for crying out loud. She shouldn't begrudge Jimmy a picture of his ex stuck near the bottom of his refrigerator.

It's just . . .he looks good all dressed up. And his ex? Well, damn. She's probably as tall as his shoulders, and doesn't have this ridiculous height gap Kate feels every time she's around him. She looks perfectly at-ease in her little black dress . . . her plunging neckline little black dress, and, hell, if THAT'S what turns Jimmy's head, well, let's just say she's got assets Kate doesn't have.

"This your ex?" She lifts the picture from the fridge, trying to keep the tone of her voice totally light. Like it's totally no big deal if your ex is sophisticated and gorgeous, because, even if she is, she didn't survive a plane crash, right? She's not internationally famous, huh?

Jimmy glances up from his chopping, actually grimaces. "Geez. No! That's my sister. What . . . hand it here. I don't even know what this is doing on there."

She hands over the picture.

"Oh yeah, that's some charity ball about a year ago. We have to go to these things sometimes." He flips it over. There's a bunch of stuff written on the back. "Yeah, she gave this to me when I had to take care of Jefferson. Vet's number, in case of emergency, all that nonsense." He hands back the photo. "You can just toss that." He indicates the garbage can.

But she sticks it back on the fridge, using an ancient "Disney World 1988" souvenir magnet. Somehow she feels this is a victory. She looks at the picture again, and yeah . . . she supposes she can see. Yeah, this is his sister. Her hair's a bit darker than his, much curlier, and, in this picture at least, her eyes aren't nearly as blue as Jimmy's, but yeah . . .total family resemblance. Phew.

He's finished putting the salads together, and she appreciates the effort he's making. They sit, eat, talk. He's the new faculty rep to the science club and he's all excited about it. That and the fact his hockey team has started the season 6-0.

Now he asks, "Tell me something about yourself that would surprise me."

_Oh, gee, where to start? I'm not Aaron's real mom. There were a lot more survivors. Banyan trees are a good place to hide when a smoke monster chases you. We just left them all there. Because the Island disappeared right in front of our eyes._

God, how she wants to tell him this. Some of it. She hadn't considered it when the rest went back, but now she's the only person in the whole world with the knowledge of what really happened, and sometimes that's just crushing. Maybe just "The Oceanic 6 story wasn't quite true." She can say that, see how he reacts, and then decide exactly how much she wants to tell.

What she actually says is "I used to have a huge crush on Joey McIntyre."

He stares at her blankly. She thinks this means he has no idea what she's talking about. Hey, maybe she's getting a hang of figuring out what it means when he just stares at her like that.

"He was in New Kids on the Block," she clarifies, and he laughs at that. "How about you?" she asks.

"Claudia Schiffer. I had a huge crush on Claudia Schiffer."

Now it's her turn to laugh, but it wasn't the answer she was looking for. "I mean, tell me something about yourself that would surprise me."

He stares at the ceiling, considering, leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. Is he doing that on purpose? Because, damn, crossed like that over his chest? Oh, yeah, she's glad she agreed to come here tonight. Glad she doesn't have to rush home.

"Ah!" He's come up with a surprising fact. "I knew someone on your plane."

Kate's pretty sure all the air just got sucked out of the room. Her mouth goes dry, and she swears she feels sweat building up in her armpit. Jimmy just goes back to spearing carrot chips with his fork.

Most people didn't survive. Surely it wasn't someone she knew. She thinks of what she knows about Jimmy, compares it to the list running in her head. Claire? No. Sawyer? Hell, no. Rose? Bernard? No, no. . . it hits her. She feels a metallic, sickly taste in her mouth. Boone. Of course. Same age, or close to. Gotta run in the same social circles. _It's all a lie, Jimmy, I'm so sorry, Jack couldn't save him. You wouldn't believe how he tried. _

Jimmy's just eating his salad, crunching loudly on carrots. La de dah. He's not going to tell her? Well, no. As far as he knows, she didn't know anyone on that plane. They all died.

"Who?" she rasps, and he doesn't seem to notice her distress.

"A guy from my department – chemistry teacher. We only overlapped one semester. Leslie Arzt. The students called him The Arzthole. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but . . . they were kinda on to something."

She smiles a weak smile. _He exploded right in front of me, Jimmy. See we had to get dynamite . . . these people – The Others – we thought they were coming. We thought they were like scary superhumans or something. We wanted to blow open the hatch. _

Arzt exploding. The Hatch, it's all coming right back. Beep beep beep. It's the alarm.

"Ziti's ready!" Jimmy brings her back to reality. He clears the salad plate. When he takes hers, he stops. "Hey, you OK?" he asks. He's so close, and smells nice. His face is so open, honest, kind. She is going to sleep with him tonight. She's going to forget about all this other crap. Screw the Island.

"Fine," she says, takes a big gulp of wine, and smiles a real smile. He pats her hand, leaves his hand on hers a bit longer than necessary.

Then he's off in the kitchen pulling out the ziti, serving it on plates. He's now talking about his new principal – who he hates. It's nice and safe and . . . NORMAL.

He returns with dinner plates, and they start eating.

"My God," Kate says with a mouthful of ziti. "Jimmy – this is delicious." She remembers the takeout menus on his refrigerator door, and wonders if someone else cooked this for him. "Do you cook much?"

"Nope. Honestly? This is my one go-to meal. It's my Impress a Woman Meal."

She laughs. "You have a meal specifically for impressing women?"

"Yep."

"Do you think it might lose some of its power when you tell the woman it's supposed to impress her?"

"Maybe, but then I just have to impress her with my other charms." He leans a bit closer and smiles a big smile. He clearly knows what his other charms are, but his slight hint of awkwardness keeps him from seeming too annoyingly arrogant.

"Well, it's good," she says, taking another bite of ziti.

"My dad says 'Three sure-fire ways to impress a lady.' Number 1, you gotta bring 'em flowers." _Check,_ thinks Kate. "Two, cook 'em a meal every now and again." Check. "Three, remember important dates – birthdays, anniversaries, stuff like that. Follow those three rules, and you're golden."

"He sounds like a wise man," Kate remarks.

"Ah," Jimmy dismisses that idea with a wave of his hand. "He talks a big game. Truth is, he just found someone to put up with his shit."

"Isn't that what we're all looking for?" Kate asks, suddenly serious. Should she have been better about putting up with Jack's baggage? She should have been.

"I guess so," Jimmy answers, thoughtful.

The rest of dinner is nice and safe and fun and Jimmy is so easy to get along with, and she so appreciates the efforts he's making. She's here in his apartment. It's their third date. He has to know what that means, and yet he's going through all the motions – wine, dinner, conversation. It's nice, and normal, and she's relaxed and happy.

He clears the dinner plates, and heads to the iPod dock in his living room. "I'll get dessert ready, but first some music," he says. He presses play, and the song that starts up is familiar. She can't quite place it . . . Jimmy's eyes go super wide, his eyebrows up to his hairline. He's punching 'pause' as she realizes she's hearing the opening strains to Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing."

"Oh geez. That's . . . . that's, uhm, that's inappropriate," he winces. This – this is the awkwardness that blunts his self-confidence and utterly charms her.

"You know," he says, thoughtful, "when I was a kid, after my sister and I went to bed, my parents would listen to old Motown stuff and dance. When I was little, it was comforting, just to know they were out there dancing. Like everything was right with the world . . ." He trails off. Kate wonders where this is going. What happened? What made it stop being comforting?

"And?" she prods.

"And when I was thirteen I actually paid attention to the lyrics to 'Let's Get it On.'" He shudders. "Gross, right?"

"Yeah," she agrees. But not really. Truth is his parents can dance to "Let's Get it On." Hell, his parents can get down and dirty on their kitchen floor for all she cares. She's just so, so happy to be on a topic that's far, far, far away from that damned Island.

He's got new music going, and steps back into the kitchen to put together dessert. "It'll just be a sec," he says, takes her hand, squeezes it, and lets go reluctantly. Oh, this is going so so well. She shivers in anticipation - it's going to be so so good, she can tell.

He's put some INXS on the iPod, and she can't quite see how "Need You Tonight," is any more appropriate than "Sexual Healing," but she'll tease him about it later. She's busy looking at his apartment. A nice, big flat screen TV and Xbox. Of course. A bookcase full of books. He does talk about books a lot. Three hockey sticks propped in the corner. She's looking at the books on his shelf and sees a plaque for "2008 Science Teacher of the Year: James C. LaFleur." A photo in a cheap frame – Jimmy and two other guys in hockey gear. A stack of baseball cards wrapped in a green rubber band.

On a lower shelf she sees a photo she has to look at closer. She picks it up. Oh, family photo, and oh! Look at Jimmy! He must be six, and he's got socks pulled up to his knees. This is delightful! His sister has no teeth. And . . . and . . . and . . .

She jerks her head up. No, please, not here. This is going so well. It's just this Arzt thing. She needs to clear her mind. She squeezes her eyes shut. Opens them and wipes them. Looks at the photo again. Wipes the thin layer of dust from the photo frame. Looks again. No. No. No. No. No. No. Her hands are shaking.

What the fuck is this? A set up, right? Oh, they're good. Really fucking good. When did she first meet Jimmy? That's right, back when Ben was trying to get everyone to go back. And, tonight his oh-so-casual mention of Arzt. And his "innocent" question (Tell me someting about yourself that would surprise me). And now, what is this? Photoshop? Plant that little seed. Make her think of all the people they left behind.

She thinks of all the times she's almost told him some truth. Wanted to so badly. Oh, he's good. Jimmy LaFleur. What sort of ridiculous name is that? And is he one of them? An Other? Or did they just hire someone to play the part? Because Others Central Casting is really damn good.

Shit. Aaron. Cassidy. Clementine. Are they safe?

She approaches the kitchen. He's got brownies on plates and is squeezing whipped cream from a can. He sees her standing there, and waggles his eyebrows at the whipped cream. OK, he doesn't know she's onto him yet. Maybe she should play it cool. Pretend she feels sick. _Please take me home._ But then what? If they are so determined to get her back, they'll keep trying, won't they? This is her life – forever. She's not playing their games.

"Who's this?" she asks/accuses holding out the framed picture to him.

"Uh, me," he answers. Noticing her agitated state, he volunteers, "I don't wear my socks like that anymore, if that's what you're worried about."

She steps close to him. How dangerous is he? She wonders. She looks at the yellowish bruise healing on his face. _Hockey injury, my ass._ "No, who're they?"

"That's my mom and dad."

_Oh, what a load of bullshit. Who the fuck are you and how much do you know? And what do you want? _

All Kate knows is she has to play this cool. As long as he doesn't know she's on to his game, as long as she plays dumb, she's got the upper hand. Once she lets on that she knows the people Photoshopped into his "family photo," she's toast.

**MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!**


	10. Whatever Happened, Happened, Pt 5

**July 4, 2000**

What a bust of a Fourth of July party this is. No, not a bust, it's not like anything's actually happened . . . well, that's sort of the point. It's just so blah. Lifeless. . . old.

Let's see. First, she was hoping Rachel would be back for the Fourth. She's coming back to LA for a job at LACMA. Juliet is thrilled. THRILLED. She's trying not to make too big a deal of it, but it's always made her uneasy having Rachel so far away. She's done the "separation from Rachel" bit before, even if it was a different Rachel, and she does not like it. No. The job doesn't start until August, though, and Rachel's decided to spend the rest of the summer at her internship in New York City.

She called this morning, all excited about some big party she's going to, a barge in the river, watching the fireworks with the city in the background. It sounds very fun, very exciting, and Juliet reminds herself not to be jealous.

Jimmy was here with three friends earlier. That actually livened things up for a bit. They ate burgers, wolfed down chips, snickered a lot, pounded each other on the back some, laughed at inside jokes. Then they were off to some beach bonfire party where, apparently, there were going to be girls. Lots of talk among the boys (men? Is Jimmy technically a "man" now?) about various girls (women?) who were rumored to be attending the party, what they'd be wearing (bikini tops were hoped for - especially a Mandy who . . . "Man, that chick is _stacked_." And the guys guffawed and slapped fives). There's talk about some "Sophie," who's apparently _really_ hoping Jimmy comes to the bonfire, and this is the first Juliet's ever heard about this Sophie person.

Their last bites of pie probably hadn't reached their stomachs when they pounded out.

"Thanks, Ma," said Jimmy, holding her head, kissing her on the temple.

"Yeah, thanks Mrs. L!" shouted the other boys (sorry, they aren't men yet, not yet), and zoomed off in Jimmy's Jeep (used to be Rachel's – a gift from Miles, and she can't believe he's still on this kick all these years later).

Juliet's no dummy. She just got used. A bunch of college boys just used her for free meals. That left the old folks for their lame, boring snooze of a party. AARP sponsored. And here they sit. Snoozefest.

Miles and his awful girlfriend. OK, not fair, not fair. As far as Miles Girlfriends go, this one's not too bad. Age appropriate. No bizarre piercings (as far as Juliet can see). She didn't put the moves on Jimmy like that woman Miles brought over on New Year's. No, this one is just . . .boring. She's an agrarian. Right? No, not that. Wrong word. An agronomist? Something. She analyzes crop yields. Apparently, in addition to analyzing them, she talks about them. And nothing else. Soybeans. Apparently that's her big thing now.

Then Miles starts complaining about his financial manager. Here we go . . . yep. In addition to being old, they're also rich. Old rich white (Miles excluded) people. What a snooze. Miles is going on and on about getting soaked by this guy, this accountant, and Juliet appreciates that James is holding up the conversation. Asking how Miles hooked up with the guy in the first place. How much did he take. Where is he now. Blah blah blah blah. Maybe they can finish this up and move on to the exciting topic of James' sciatica flare up.

She rarely wishes they were back on the Island. Doesn't wish that now, but, well . . . couldn't they be young again for one night? It's 2000, for crying out loud, she's supposed to be 29. Instead, she's listening to Miles, with his fringe of hair, and when's he just going to give up the ghost and shave it all off, "ala John Locke," as James calls it. She shouldn't judge; she held on to the blonde long past its natural expiration date. Her colorist convinced her she should go natural gray. "I think you'd have gorgeous gray hair." She supposes she does – she gets compliments all the time. It's a pretty silver, not dingy or yellowish, and, OK, she's maybe a little vain about it, but the bottom line is, it's gray. James's "silver fox" comments aside, it's gray gray gray. Just like this "party."

Miles pauses from his money manager complaints, James is just staring at him, so that gives . . . (should Juliet even bother learning this one's name?). . . the crop lady a chance to slip in a word about cabbage futures. Moving on from soybeans.

Juliet checks out mentally. Imagines a Dharma party. Miles with some girl (some things never change, she guesses). Jin. Everyone just a little bit tipsy. Maybe after everyone left, she and James would have sex right there on the kitchen table (OK, that was only the one time, but still . . .). She glances his direction now, lets her imagination run wild, but since there's that sciatica flare up... God, so damn old.

Miles and crop girl don't even stay long enough to watch the fireworks. They're pretty great from the roof. But, since everyone's gone, James doesn't see the point in climbing up there. He's out on the deck, smoking a cigar. She's all ready for bed now, so she steps out to let him know. He stubs the cigar out right quick. He's not halfway in, and she knows it's probably a $50 cigar, but, hey, money's good for something right?

"Going on up to bed," she tells him.

He nods. He's very still. Concerned about something, she can tell. He's actually been kind of subdued most of the night, now that she thinks about it. Well, not all night. He was having a ball egging the boys on about the girls, especially stacked Mandy, they were going to see at their party. He was fine then. Is he just in a "when did we get so old" funk like she is? If so, well, she's pretty sure it'll pass. It always passes. Because getting old? Watching your kids grow up? I mean, that's kind of the point, isn't it? Better than the alternative.

"Everything OK?" she asks him.

He's staring up at the sky. "I think we gotta stick it to Miles' accountant."

This again? And, God help her, she knows how awful it sounds, cringes as the thought formulates in her brain and escapes her mouth, but she actually says, "Come on, James, it's just a couple hundred thousand dollars. Miles will be fine." And just because she doesn't want to sound like the silver-haired rich bitch she often fears she's becoming, she also tries a practical argument. "Besides, you heard Miles, he doesn't have the first clue where the guy's run off to."

"I don't know where he's run off to now, but I know where he'll be starting later this summer."

"Yeah? Where's that?"

"California State Pen."

They stare at each other for an extended period.

"This is one of those 'what happened, happened' things, isn't it?" she finally asks.

"An important one," he says.

* * *

He hadn't been paying too much attention at dinner. Miles' latest chick was insanely boring. What the fuck was she going on about? Soybeans? Really? James zoned out. Then Miles started complaining about losing some money. Thank the lord. No more soybean talk. Somethin' about a financial planner ripping him off or something. Soybean lady looked like she was about to pipe in with some more discussion of shit (literally – fertilizers were where they left off). Juliet was sitting with her head in her right hand, squeezing her temples. World's boringest dinner party? Maybe.

James would do anything to keep the soybean lady out of the conversation, so he started asking Miles about the accountant.

"Damn, I should've known not to trust that George Costanza-looking creep," Miles said, and every nerve ending in James' body lit up. Sciatic nerve and all. James plied him with a few more questions. No doubt about it, it's Munson.

Lucky for James, Miles and Soybean lady called it an early night (maybe she's a hit in the sack, James thought, hoping he'd never have to see her again). Miles left behind a gift-wrapped package. "That's a welcome home gift for Rachel. Thought she was supposed to be back."

"Do I even have to guess what it is?"

"Nope."

It's some kind of Jeep toy, accessory, maybe even a t-shirt with a Jeep logo. Rachel thinks it's her special joke with Uncle Miles. Joke's on her.

"Jesus, Miles. It's been more'n 20 years. It ain't funny anymore."

"Funnier, actually," said Miles. "Ha. You two old folks, pillars of the community. Ha."

"Later, Enos," he waved Miles out the door.

Juliet then wandered off wherever, and James took off for the back deck for some alone time with a good cigar. He needed to think this one out.

Jimmy won't be home until his curfew at 2:30. Hell, they'll be sound asleep by then, and what are the chances Jimmy actually comes home in time? James wonders if he's more lenient with Jimmy because he's a guy, or if it's because he's second. Both, probably. He remembers that massive dust-up with Rachel . . . has it been almost four years now?

_She's home for fall break freshman year, and has a boy with her. He has real skinny black jeans, and funky wristbands, and spiky black hair. And maybe some eye makeup. James would think he's queer, except the way he looks at Rachel. _**Where **_he looks at her. James is pretending he's cool with this, last year's purple hair incident still fresh in his mind. Ain't gonna make a big deal about this Duran Duran lookin' fella. He'll be history by spring break anyway._

_The airline calls and the doofus boyfriend goes into the other room. It's about his missing bags. _Wonder what he keeps in there_, thinks James. _More hair gel?_ So it's just James and Rachel in the kitchen._

_"Daddy, Hunt and I are both going to stay in my bedroom, OK?"_

_"Like hell. Got the guest bedroom all set up for him and everything."_

_She rolls her eyes. "You know I stay at his apartment all the time."_

_No, no, he does NOT know this (does Juliet? Had he missed this?). He huffs, runs his fingers through his hair, grits his teeth, sneers. He's trying to keep a lid on it. Rachel can tell, so she eggs him on._

_"Ooooooooh. Premarital sex, Dad. Does it scare you?"_

_"As long as I got anything to say about it, it ain't happenin' here."_

_"Hypocrite," she coughs._

_"Watch it, young lady."_

_"Oh, come off it, Dad! I'm not an idiot. And I may be an artist, but I can do simple math. I know when my birthday is. I know when your anniversary is. So, why don't you just get down off your high horse?"_

_"Totally different situation, sweetheart." Understatement of the year._

_And, well, let's not dive too deep into this, all right? Truth is, even the anniversary is a made up date. Well, kinda. December 19, 1977. It's important and all, but, well . . . ain't a wedding anniversary or nothin'. Kids think it is, but the truth is, well, the truth is . . . they aren't married. Sure, they wear rings, and, yes, share the same (made up) last name, and refer to each other as "husband and wife," but, no, they never actually got married. How could they? Kinda hard to get a marriage certificate when you're technically eight and six._

_Rachel huffs. "Well, what is it that scares you then? What's the worst that could happen? Unplanned pregnancy? Wooooooh boy. Wouldn't want that, would we?"_

_"World a difference between unplanned and unwanted, princess."_

_"Like you would know."_

_She's beautiful. She's talented and smart and kind and funny, and most of the time it makes his heart swell to about bursting that someone like that could take after him. He hears it all the time, has heard it for nearly 19 years. _Little girl's just like you, LaFleur._ There are times (like this, like the fight with the purple hair, like so many other times he could name) where it drives him fucking batty how much she's like him. How she likes to pick fights. Doesn't put up with bullshit. Calls 'em like she sees 'em._

Like you would know._ Damn. Damn. He's the certified goddamn expert on the difference between unplanned and unwanted._

_Juliet picks this moment to walk into the kitchen. James is still adjusting to her new look. She's decided to go all gray. It's actually pretty good looking, and he ain't just sayin' it. In his mind, she's always looked best when it's natural and effortless, and that's it now. Problem is coming up with a whole new nickname, and "Gray Goose" did NOT go over well._

_"Mom, Dad says Hunt has to stay in the guest bedroom."_

_Juliet looks to her, slides her eyes over to James. "Your father's right."_

_Rachel pouts. "I knew you'd take his side!"_

_Argument over, though. Rachel flounces out. Jimmy walks in. And when the hell did he get home? Wasn't he out playing ball with a buddy? "She'll probably sleep with him now just to prove a point," Jimmy remarks. He's dripping sweat, pulling a Gatorade bottle from the fridge._

_"Take a shower, Jim-bo. You stink."_

_They have no fucking clue, the two of them. They just assume this is how life it. Mom and Dad will always be there to patch up their scrapes, soothe their broken hearts, cheer at their games, wave at their graduations. It just ain't like that for everybody, and they've got no fucking clue what that's like. God, he's glad they don't. This is the life he wants for them, but there's another little girl . . .not even born yet, and with every first step and training wheel removal and first day of school and scout meeting and dance recital… every one just reminds him of that poor girl._

_He imagines finding her, setting her down on the couch with Jimmy and Rachel and giving a master course on the difference between unwanted and unplanned. Hell, Jimmy could be excused, since he ain't either._

_All right, class, let's dim the lights._

_First slide._

_Unwanted: You're screwing this chick, and let's be completely honest. You like her. You really do. She's fun, nice, decent. How could you _**not**_ like her? But you don't like her quite enough to walk away. Nope. If you liked her enough, you'd leave without taking a dime. Deal with the consequences later. And when she slaps down a picture of a baby and says it's yours? Well, that's _**unwanted.**_ That's just a reminder you're just one big fucking huge liar and you want absolutely nothing to do with this reminder of what an asshole you are._

_Next slide, please._

_Unplanned: So, let's face it, you can't be careful every damn time. And spontaneity can be fucking hot. You have this idea that maybe you should be more careful, but you know what? Even if it does happen, would that really be the worst thing in the world? Or at least that's kinda what you tell yourself because you really, really, really wanna be doing it right now. And when you find out that, oops, I guess maybe you probably should've been more careful? Well, that's _**unplanned.**_ Then your legs don't quite work right anymore, and your heart starts hammering in your chest, and you gotta grit your teeth to choke back tears, because . . . well, HOLY SHIT. This is pretty damn amazing and cool and sometimes second chances do come around. Maybe he don't know how, but he's gonna be the best damn dad he can be._

_The End. Any questions, class?_

__

_Rachel and Jimmy. They got no fucking clue how lucky they are. And they were lucky **way **before the money started coming in._

* * *

And now he thinks it ain't a coincidence that fat fuck Munson is Miles' accountant. How can it be? See, James pretty much buys in to this "whatever happened, happened," bit. Especially after he went and had that grant meeting with Baby Juliet two years ago. Kinda hard to argue with "whatever happened, happened" anymore. He hates it means that he's still gonna con Cassidy, but it's comforting to know it means he's still gonna get that prison money to Clementine.

Now, though, he realizes it is gonna require a little bit more work. When can they stop making sure things happen the way they're supposed to and just live? When the plane crashes?

The sliding door from the house opens, and he stubs out his cigar. She knows it's what he does out here from time to time, but he knows she doesn't like it. It's not lost on her that something's bugging him. So, he explains: Miles and Munson and blah blah blah.

"This is one of those 'what happened, happened' things, isn't it?" she asks him.

"An important one," he says.

She leans back against the deck railing with him, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the sky. He can't see her face, but figures she's giving the worried "when can we stop making things happen" look.

She asks, "So, what? We're just supposed to waltz into the prison and ask them to do a small favor for us?"

"Ain't figured it out yet."

"We could donate money. Then they'd owe us a favor."

"I suppose…"

Back in prison there were always rich do-gooders donating crap. . . Son of a bitch.

"Sonofabitch. Son! Of! A! Bitch!" He starts laughing. Oh, this is rich.

She turns to him now. "Wanna fill me in?"

"Remember how we first got to be friends?"

"Surviving time shifts?"

"I mean in Dharma. Remember how we got to talking, and we'd read all the same books? I think that's when I went from thinkin' you were kinda all right to fallin' in love with you."

"And?"

"And I read all those books in prison. Some rich family donated them all."

Son of a bitch.


	11. How to Lose a Guy in One Night

Her mind is running about a million miles a minute. _Think, Kate, think_. Jimmy's just futzing around with dessert plates. "Strawberries!" he exclaims. "Forgot the strawberries." He turns, sticks his head in the fridge, and now's her chance to ask. When he can't see her. She just wants to find out how much exactly this guy knows.

"What're their names?" she asks.

"Who's that?" he's out of the fridge now, setting a pint of strawberries on the counter.

"Your 'parents,'" and, oh God, could he hear the air quotes? Maybe she should give up on this acting cool bit . . .

"Uh, well, my mom's Juliet, and my dad's Jim."

Uh huh. Close, but not quite. So, maybe he _is_ just an actor. Like those lawyers back in the winter – they weren't really Others, just people hired by the Others. Maybe this guy, too.

"Why the sudden interest in my folks?" he asks, looks at her keenly.

Shit. Did she push that too far?

"Nothing," she murmurs. Oh, God. She's worrying about Aaron and Cassidy and Clementine all over again. She's backing up, out of the kitchen, she's just gonna place this photo back on the shelf. But as she turns the corner, she decides she's got to do something. If this guy's nothing but an actor, she can probably force some info out of him.

She's just on the other side of the kitchen entry, and she realizes the corners of the picture frame are sharp. Too sharp? "Jimmy" (or whatever the guy's name is) comes out of the kitchen carrying the desserts in little plates. One in each hand. Perfect. As soon as he comes through the door, she swings the frame at his head. Not a corner – she just wants to bash him across the face. It all happens so fast. She swings, but the first thing she strikes is an arm, and the dessert plates go clattering to the floor. It's enough time for him to recover, and all she knows is that he's got her pinned to the wall now, by each wrist. Hell, that was fast. How did he react so fast? Shit, he's really an Other?

His face is maybe a quarter inch from hers. Their noses almost touch. His eyes blaze out from behind his glasses. She'd kind of imagined a moment like this with him, but with an entirely different purpose, an entirely different outcome. Her wrists are starting to hurt, he's gripping them so tightly. He looks almost scary. She _is_ scared. He lets her go, though.

"Jesus Christ. What the _fuck_ was that?" he asks.

She's panting against the wall, and before she can catch her breath to answer, he says, "I was just bringing you dessert." He gestures at the mess of whipped cream, brownies, strawberries on the floor.

Wow. Suggestion is a powerful thing. For a second she's back at the Dharma barracks staring down Juliet. God, he looks like her. Really. Enough that he could totally pass as her brother, and why didn't they use that story? That would actually kind of make sense. Frankly, Kate doesn't know what's more absurd – that Juliet would be old enough to have an adult son, or that she'd have a son with Sawyer. She even chuckles.

"What's so damn funny?" Jimmy demands, on the floor picking up the dropped dessert.

"This scenario you've got set up here. I mean, Juliet and Sawyer, give me a break."

He's wiping whipped cream off the tile. "Who's Sawyer?"

Hmmmm. So clearly, there's a lot he doesn't know. This is good. Real good. Time to pull this string a little bit more. She thinks again it may be possible that he's not really one of them.

"Why don't you tell me your real name? Where you're really from?"

He just kind of shakes his head, chuckles, rolls his eyes. "Seriously? All right, ma'am." He stands up straight, raises his right hand like he's taking an oath or something. "My full name is James Carlson LaFleur. Date of birth: February 14, 1980. Place of birth: Ann Arbor, Michigan. Moved to LA when I was 15. Stanford Class of '02. Moved back down here for a job. Anything else you wanna know? Blood type? Favorite color?"

She wonders how much of that is true. How did the Others pick that name? Or is it really his name?

"What did your parents say when you told them about me?" she asks.

"Nothing."

"Really? I find that hard to believe."

"I haven't told them anything about you. Look, Kate, don't take this the wrong way. I mean, I _thought_ we were having a good time. I _thought _things were going well, but it's not like I run off to tell my Mommy and Daddy about every girl I go out with. This, though," he points to the mess on the floor, kind of indicates the whole crazy scene. "This, I gotta say, is worth telling them about." He shakes his head and laughs.

She calls his bluff. "Yeah, why don't you just go ahead and do that?"

"You mean right now?"

She points to the phone on the counter. _Ah HA._ He can't call them right now, because they don't exist. "Yeah, that's right. Go ahead, pick up the phone and tell them about your crazy date gone bad."

He reaches for the phone. Is he calling her bluff? She expected him to make up some lame excuse as to why he couldn't call his 'parents.'

"I'm calling you a cab," he says.

_Of course you are_, she thinks. _Things have gotten a little out of hand, haven't they? You weren't expecting me to 'catch on' yet, where you? What was the real plan? Get me real nice and comfortable, keep hinting around, drop a reference to Arzt here, to Boone there, and then BOOM! Pull out the big gun and start throwing out Sawyer's name until you guilt me into telling the real truth, right? And then what? And what the hell is with the lame "Sawyer is my dad" cover story?_

What she actually says to him is, "Too chickenshit to call HQ, huh?"

He replaces the phone, cab undialed, in the base. "Uhm. No." He's talking to her slowly, like she's a 5-year-old who needs everything spelled out just so. "I'm not calling, because it's a random Tuesday night, and I don't see why it can't wait."

"What if I told you I slept with your dad?"

"Oh yeah? When was that?" He seems to be playing along.

"Four years ago."

He laughs. "Yeah, huh? And how was it?" He seems so nonchalant. Did he know this? What exactly has he been told about what happened?

"Pretty damn good," she answers. "I'm kind of surprised you don't know about it. You guys got it on tape. I don't know for certain, but I imagine your mom probably watched some of it."

His response surprises her – he is giggling. It's high pitched, and totally at odds with everything she's known about him so far. He covers his mouth with his right hand, but he can't stop giggling. Finally, he catches his breath. "I'm sorry," he says. He glances around the room. "Is _this_ being taped? Is this some kind of practical joke?" He cups his hands to his mouth, "Rachel, can you hear me? This is about the lamest stunt you've ever pulled."

"It's not a joke," Kate says.

He turns to look at her, directly. He drops his hands from his mouth, runs them over his head, resting his left hand on the back of his neck. He dips his head to the floor while kneading his neck with his hand. After a moment, he looks back at her. "Kate, I . . . look, I bet what you went through, with the crash and all . . . the baby . . . and then after . . . I'm sure that was really rough. I think maybe things . . .maybe you aren't . . . I don't know how to say this, but, uhm, well . . ."

He's doing that stammering awkward thing so at odds with the super-reflexed man who just pinned her against the wall. Now that she knows it's all an act, it's starting to piss her off. Finally, he stammers out "I guess I'm worried you might be unbalanced. What you're saying is absurd."

"No, what _you_ are saying is absurd," she counters.

"And can you remind me what it is I said that's so absurd?" He's talking to her like he's her therapist or something.

"Who you said your parents were," _dumbass_ (she leaves that part unspoken, but she hopes it's implied).

"That's not something I say. I mean, that's just the way it is."

She wants to tear her hair out. GODDAMN but they could keep going round and round in circles. Why doesn't he just give up the ghost? She's on to him, all right? On to THEM. They could just keep it up like this all night or, well, fuck, she's putting an end to it right now.

"Take me to them," she says.

He looks taken aback, looks at her like she's crazy, then kind of smirks. And see . . . THAT. Right there. If you fucking Others were all so brilliant, well then you'd say he's her brother. That actually makes sense. Except, well, she didn't ever care _that much _about Juliet, so . . .

"What are you scared of?" she asks. "Just take me to them."

He does the hair rub, neck rub thing again and then looks up at her, eyes so blue and clear behind his glasses. If she didn't know better, she'd say he looks like he pities her. He sighs deeply. "All right," he relents. "Let me just call first to check that they're home."

"Don't tell them why you're coming," she warns. She hasn't figured out this whole set-up yet, but she would like to show up at least somewhat unannounced at the Others LA Branch. "No funny business."

"Wouldn't think of it," he scoffs, picking up the phone and dialing.


	12. Whatever Happpened, Happened, Pt 6

**OK, Sawyer got transferred from the New Mexico State Pen to California. So, it turns out the NMSP is like 13 hours from LA, and this is supposed to be a day trip, so I've moved him to California. Actually, he was _always_ in California, and I'll have to change an earlier chapter to reflect that. Oops. Oh well, no one seems to know where he was in prison, so California it is.**

**June 2001**

Juliet knocks on the door, Rachel opens but is too harried to look at her, running late (as usual). Juliet steps in. Rachel's looking all over for her missing phone. She finds it under a stack of fashion magazines. She finally looks up and notices. Does a double take. Giggles. When she recovers, she puts on a straight face. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Rachel LaFleur, and you are?" She holds out a hand to shake.

"Very funny. You ready to go?" Juliet asks.

"Seriously, Mom. What's with the get-up? You look like you're on your way to brunch at the Country Club."

She's trying to look the part. Rich benefactress. Rich benefactresses don't have what their daughters call "Jane Goodall hair." First thing this morning, she went to the salon and had them take two inches off, then spray spray spray spray the hair into this sleek, professional helmet head. Confirmed by James when she stopped by home. "Holy crap. Paint a skull and crossbones on the sides there, and you got yourself your own personal Raiders helmet." He tapped on it, crinkled his nose, made an "ew" face. "Your hair is crunchy."

"Stop touching it. I don't want you to mess it up."

"Sweetheart, that hair don't move. Even a roll in the hay's not gonna mess that up."

"That's supposed to be an invitation of some sort?"

"_**NO**_." He fakes a shudder. "Your hair is supposed to move when I touch it."

So, what's the first thing Rachel does after the Country Club remark? She taps on her mother's head, crinkles her nose, makes an "ew" face. "Your hair is hard, Mom. _Crunchy_. Nice outfit, though."

Juliet's in a sleek (but age appropriate) suit, heels, expensive jewelry, the whole shebang. She doesn't know why she feels she has to dress this way, or why she feels she has to play at being someone she isn't. They've given the prison and surrounding prison ministries a ton of money, and it's not like they're possibly going to guess her true purpose. James tells her it helps, though. If you're playing a role, a costume makes things easier.

They leave Rachel's apartment. Rachel suggests they take her Jeep. Juliet vetoes that. (Damn Miles. Rachel was _**supposed**_ to get a used BMW when she turned 16. They hid it at Miles' for a few days. Long enough for him to trade it in for a brand-new Jeep. Which Rachel loved and squealed over. No returning it. In fact, when she came back to California, first thing she did was take the Jeep back from Jimmy. If she only knew . . .).

No. No Jeep. They take Juliet's Lexus sedan, and this is really her car, but it's part of the role, too. They take their seats. Rachel's going to drive, so Juliet can "go over paperwork." (Really, psych herself up).

Rachel starts the car, but before she can pull out, Juliet stops her. "Wait. You have to see the rest of my costume." Using only her fingertips (to protect yesterday's manicure), she puts on huge sunglasses, then wraps a designer silk scarf over the top of her head. She sucks in her cheeks, makes a fishy kissy face. "So? What do you think?"

Rachel laughs, claps her hands together. "You look mahhhhvelous, dahling." She leans across the center console to give Juliet cheek-to-cheek air kisses. "Simply fabulous, my dear." She turns her attention to driving, pulls from the curb onto the road. "I don't get you, Mom, but I love you." She laughs again, turns on the car radio.

_Oh, Rachel. I wish you could know her. She's funny and smart and she never lets me get away with anything. _Juliet thinks this all the time, and she's not sure if she's talking to her daughter about her sister, or talking to her sister about her daughter.

They drive in silence for awhile, Rachel listening to something on NPR, Juliet reading James' handwritten notes - his 'who's who' of the prison. She knows everything written on there. She stares out the car window.

Rachel breaks the silence. "How come Dad isn't driving you?"

The only answer for that is the truth, and well, the truth . . . the truth is just too weird.

"'Cause prison's not his thing, huh? Mr. Law and Order?"

"Something like that." (nothing like that).

"Can't believe he's letting you go in there all on your own, though." (Rachel's just dropping her off – then out to some artist community nearby). "I can just hear him now." She lowers her voice, says, "Juliet, ain't no damn way you're goin' in there on your own." She does a pretty good imitation. Doesn't hurt that, fluffy curly hair aside, she's his spitting image. "Macho, macho, macho, macho," she finishes.

Juliet stifles a laugh. James would have made her a nervous wreck driving her up here. No, Rachel's much better.

* * *

"Don't be late, OK? Two hours, right?" She's out of the car now, clutching her (James') notes, staring at the prison entrance, and maybe she should just ask Rachel to come in with her. No, no. She's got to go visit that artist colony or whatever, and James would absolutely freak out if he found out she took his daughter into prison.

"OK, Mom," Rachel says, exasperated, impatient.

"I wouldn't have to remind you about it if you were ever actually on time for anything."

"OK, OK," she relents, face softening. She's aware how much her mom is nervous about going into a prison. Just not aware of all the reasons why.

Prison (or the part they let rich benefactresses see) is pretty much what she imagined. It stinks of Lysol and body odor and toilets and greasy industrial food. Warden Harris is there to meet her at the visitors' entrance. He introduces her to other prison big wigs. He escorts her back to his office, taking the long way, so she can see the prison. She keeps her eyes firmly on the ground in front of her.

She's scared to death that she'll see James. He doesn't remember, but told her, not unkindly, "You probably ain't the kind of chick I'd of looked at twice back then." So, there are no guarantees she won't see him. The only guarantee is her eyes on the ground at all times. She doesn't want to see him here, imprisoned, angry, mean.

They chit chat over lunch in his office. The warden creeps her out. She's glad for James' notes, because she wasn't expecting anything different. He's all solicitous and oily and "can I get you anything else?" and ugh. Ugh.

Lunch plates cleared, he sits across the desk from her, leans forward, steeples his fingers.

"Mrs. LaFleur, I can't reiterate again how much your donations have helped us."

_Reiterate implies again, you moron. _"Oh, it's been our pleasure."

"If you'd like, we'd love to show you some of the improvements we've been able to make. The library, especially. Mr. Taylor says the prisoners there have really appreciated what you've done for them. Would you like to see the library?"

_HELL NO. _Besides, that Taylor seems like such a giant prick. And when she had to meet him at the little fundraiser he had?_ Shudder. _"I appreciate the offer, but really, I don't have much time."

He looks at her curiously. Why did she come all the way up here if it's not to take a look-see at all the wondrous and amazing things they've done with her money?

"I just wanted a chance to meet you in person," she smiles at him, going for her most charming smile. "What other ways can I help you, Warden?"

He leans back in his chair, his weight making it squeak. He clasps his hands behind his head. _This is what you hoped I was going it ask, isn't it, you greedy bastard? _He puts on a good show of thinking, like he doesn't already know exactly what he wants to take from this rich, innocent, do-gooder.

"The C.O.s could use a new break room."

"Oh, that sounds like a wonderful, idea, Warden. Yes, I think we could do that." She makes a big show of pulling her checkbook from her purse. His eyes widen. He wasn't expecting it to be this easy. "How much, do you think?"

He gulps, clears his throat. "Well, we've been building a fund. If you'd like to contribute a couple thousand dollars would be great."

She waves that suggestion away. "Oh, pish," she says (she thinks "pish" might be the sort of thing rich ladies say). "How about we add a few zeros to that?" She begins writing her check. "Who should I make this out to?"

"Corrections Officers of California Benevolent Association," he answers, still clearly amazed at his good fortune.

She starts writing. She gets to the money block, and starts scratching out zeros. She stops, lifts her pen from the check, looks at the warden. _God, please, please make this work._

"Warden, I apologize. I haven't been completely honest with you. I'm hoping you can do a favor for me."

"Anything," he says, staring anxiously at the zeros, the unsigned check.

"A friend of mine recently had the bad fortune of entrusting his money to the wrong man. That man is here now, and I'd like to help my friend get his money back."

"You've just described about half the inmate population."

_Good point._ "Munson. Do you have a prisoner here named Munson?"

"We do, but I'm afraid he's not talking. We've tried. The Feds can't get him to talk – a lot of that money he took was government money. The local cops tried. . . He wants that money for when he gets out of here, and no way is he telling us."

"Oh, dear. Well, it was worth a shot." She returns to the check, writes two more zeros, stops again. Is she just imagining, or does the warden cringe every time she stops writing? Her pen is poised over the check. "Surely there must be some way to make him talk. You've got a prison full of bad guys. Surely one of them could, let's say, _persuade_ Mr. Munson to provide the information?"

"I'd love to try that, ma'am, but I can't be inciting any violence."

"Of course not. I shouldn't have asked." She finishes writing her numbers, filling out the check. She swears he exhales when she gets to the signature block. She signs her first name. "Too bad no one can trick him into giving it up, right?" she chuckles at her silly, absurd idea. "Bet you don't have anyone in here who can outsmart a financial manager." She chuckles again, as does the warden. _Oh ho ho ho ho ho_, they bond over the intellectual blight in the prison population, but she very clearly has not signed her last name to the check.

"Well, now that you mention it, ma'am," Warden Harris is thoughtful. He picks up his desk phone, and spins around in his chair. His back to her now, she sees the cord wrap around his shoulders. She hears him mumbling to someone in the phone. She can't be sure, but she's almost positive she hears "Ford" in there once or twice.

He turns around, replaces the phone in the base. "No guarantees," he says sternly.

She nods.

Warden Harris continues, "No guarantees, but we do have someone here who has the, shall we say, 'skill set,' to do what you're asking. If this works, I don't want it getting out. This special arrangement."

"I understand, of course."

"I'd like to fill in the Treasury Agent who's working the case. Give me a little cover."

"Warden, it doesn't matter to me how you do this or who you tell. My friend just wants his money back." She returns to her check, signs her last name (her fake last name, although she stopped thinking of it as fake years ago). She rips the check out with a flourish, hands it to the warden.

He looks at the check, chuckles. "Mind me asking a question?" She shakes her head no. "Why don't you just give your friend this money? Why go through all this to make his accountant pay?"

She puts on her inscrutable Others Mystery Face. "Some things just have to happen a certain way," she non-answers, one of her long dormant specialties.

"Whatever you say, ma'am. We'll see what we can get out of this Munson."

"Thank you."

_OK, James, all up to you now_, she thinks. Well, no. James has done his part. Figuring out the Munson connection, getting their donations to the prison, writing up his "Who's Who" prison notes. No, James has done his part. It's Sawyer they're counting on now. But what happened, happened, right? He'll do it. He has to.

She keeps her eyes to the floor again as she's escorted out. She cannot see him. She can't bear to see the man he used to be. It doesn't matter that she knows exactly who he is. Was. To see him that way . . . mean, angry . . . she can't do it. Besides, she couldn't bear the contempt for her she knows she'd see in his eyes. Rich, coiffed, snobby, do-gooder.

She's out the front gates, says her goodbyes to the warden. She scans the visitors' parking lot._ Please be here, Rachel. For once, please be on time. _She is ready to go, ready to leave this place. _Thank God, there she is._ Juliet catches Rachel leaning against the car, grinding her heel into the ground. Caught smoking, huh?

She approaches quickly. "I'll let your father deal with that," she indicates the dead butt. She's not interested in getting into that now. "Let's go."

Rachel holds up one index finger. "Just a minute," she says, indicating a woman talking on the phone, standing against a car a few spaces over. "She's got my phone."

Hell. Juliet just wants out, but fine, fine. It looks like the woman's wrapping up her phone conversation anyway. Indeed, she hangs up, hands the phone back to Rachel. "Thanks so much. Maybe I need to invest in one of those.

"If you do, get a Nokia," says Rachel (they own about a tenth of Nokia).

The other woman notices Juliet, explains, "First time leaving my baby with a sitter."

"Oh, that's tough, I know," Juliet small talks. "OK, Rach, let's go."

Rachel's never met a stranger, though, so has to linger to talk some more._ Dammit. Let's just go. _"Well, good luck in there," Rachel says, squeezing the woman's arm.

And then Juliet just _knows_. She knows. She can't explain why she knows, but she does. She feels sick. _Just stop talking, Rachel, and get in the car. _

The woman (should we call her Cassidy? Because that's who it is, isn't it?) sighs heavily. "I don't know. . ."

"It'll be fine," says Rachel. _Of course. Why wouldn't it be fine? Your whole life everything has been fine, and you have no idea it's not that way for everybody. It's not going to be fine. He's going to do everything short of spitting in her face._

"I don't know . . ." Cassidy starts again.

"Get in the car, Rachel," Juliet orders. She doesn't want to be here anymore. She doesn't want their life to keep looping in on itself like this, and she feels so sorry for this woman. She's clearly nervous, sad, anxious. Rachel's not doing anything but trying to strike up some woman-to-woman feminist camaraderie. Juliet wants no part in it.

Rachel rolls her eyes at Cassidy, sighs an exaggerated sigh (a little "can you believe my mom?" bonding). "Do you have a picture?" Rachel asks, and what part of "Get in the car" did she not understand?

"Uhm, uhm. Well, oh, you must think I'm a terrible mother," Cassidy worries.

And wait. She showed him a picture, right?

"Oh, not to show me," Rachel says. "To show_ him_." She spits the pronoun out like she, too, hates Cassidy's male tormentor. She starts again, "I mean, maybe it's just me – I'm a visual person, but I bet if you show him a photo . . . Well, it would take an Olympic-level asshole to turn that away."

"That's not a bad idea," Cassidy says, but it's also clear she's been looking for an excuse to postpone this visit. Maybe tomorrow she'll come back with the picture.

"Let's. Go. Rachel." Juliet says. Whatever happened, happened, and there you go. There you fucking go. _Hey, James, the only reason you ever saw your daughter's picture is because your daughter suggested it. _

Rachel finally gets in the car. She rolls down her side of the window. "Good luck," she says. Juliet doesn't even speak. She just can't. And now she will be remembered by Cassidy (if at all) as that bitchy older woman whose daughter was so nice. Fine. Fine. She's had enough of all this nonsense.

She pulls out of the prison lot.

"Her asshole ex stole all her money."

_Can we please not talk about it? _"Really."

"Really. And knocked her up. And won't answer her letters. What a total bastard."

_Stop talking, Rachel. _"Mmmm. Hmmm."

"I mean, can you even imagine?"

"No."

Rachel looks over at her mother now. "What's with you?"

"Nothing's _with _me, I just don't want to talk about it, OK?"

"Fine."

Well, that was simple. Rachel's not normally one to give in so easily.

Rachel says, "It's just. Well, I know I give Dad a hard time about, well, everything, but I guess I'm pretty lucky, huh?"

_Oh, for heaven's sake. YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT THE SAME PERSON, OK? Jesus, can we just stop. Please please please?_ Juliet runs a hand through her hair. Or, well, tries to. GODDAMMIT. Sticky, immobile helmet hair. GAH!

"Yes, sweetheart, you are very lucky." What the hell else is she supposed to say?


	13. Meet the Parents

**Thanks for all the reviews on the last few chapters. It's fun to get such great feedback. If I haven't responded to a review, I apologize, but I do appreciate all of them. **

****

**Thanks also to tia8206. I plagiarized a line from her in this one (sorry I didn't ask beforehand, I was just anxious to have this up and done). I'll see if she catches it (answer at the end).**

* * *

Jimmy's looking at Kate like _she's_ the one whose dock doesn't quite reach the water, but he picks up the phone anyway. He's looking at her with so much pity. If he really knew the people he was working for, he'd understand. He wouldn't think she was paranoid. Wouldn't think she was crazy.

She steps closer. She's not going to miss if he somehow slips some kind of "Warning" code to his Others handler. At her invasion of his personal space, Jimmy's attitude shifts. He looks at her, eyes blazing a "back off" warning she chooses to ignore.

He cradles the receiver between his cheek and shoulder, punches in a few numbers. Kate's close enough to hear the rings. After four rings, a woman picks up the other end. Kate hears a distant, tinny, "Hello?"

"Hey, Ma, it's Jimmy."

"Oh! Hey, sweetie, everything OK?"

"Uhm, yeah, fine. Listen, I'm just calling to see if you and Dad are home tonight."

"Of course we are. Tuesday. Movie night, remember?"

For once Jimmy stops looking like he could murder someone and rolls his eyes instead. "Yeah, that's right. Well, I'm . . . I've got, well . . ." he looks over at Kate who shakes her head in warning._ Do not give me away, you sneaky bastard_. "I've got something I wanna bring by the house."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah. That OK?"

"Sure. I'll have Dad put on the porch light and leave the door unlocked," the woman on the other end of the conversation says. "Are you sure everything's OK? You sound frazzled."

"I'm fine, Mom. So, I'll see you soon, all right?"

"All right. Drive safely, Jimmy. Love you."

"Yeah, love you, too, Mom."

He hangs up. Glares over at Kate. Damn. He's kind of scary (and kind of sexy) when he's all mean like this.

"Thanks for not spilling the beans on the phone," she tries a slight peace offering.

"Yeah, well, guess you didn't break my secret, 'Mom, help me! I'm dating a lunatic,' code," he huffs. "Let's go." He snatches his keys from the counter.

She's standing outside his door as he locks the deadbolt. It's early November, slightly chilly, and she runs her hands up and down her arms. She dressed for an amorous night at hot man's apartment, not for a late-night showdown with the Others. Jimmy notices her discomfort. "Son of a bitch," he mutters, unlocks his door, and steps inside. He's out in a second, and shoves a Stanford red, zip-up hoodie at her. "Wear this," he practically snarls. She almost laughs that despite his obvious . . . anger? Pity? Both? Despite it all, he's still gallant.

They walk to his car, and he chirps the locks with his key fob. She's somewhat surprised that he heads straight for the driver's side door. "What, you're not gonna open my door for me?" she teases. I mean, hell, they're heading for a showdown one way or another, might as well have a wee bit of fun while they're at it.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he grumbles. He stops, changes direction, heads to her door, and opens it wide. He gestures toward the front seat in an over-exaggerated fake-butler manner. She sits. "Happy now?" he snarls, and she just nods. _OK, guess he's not going to do anymore of that fun, flirty, teasing banter._ He slams her door shut, hard, confirming her suspicions.

Once he's seated, he turns the ignition, fiddles with the CD controls. He turns the music up loud, so that even if she wanted to talk, she couldn't. He doesn't even look at her as he pulls out of the apartment lot and onto the main road. Kid Rock - she recognizes the music playing. She clutches the oh shit handles. If she thought he was an aggressive driver before, she supposes that anger makes him even more so. She wonders if the Others checked his driving record before hiring him. What's the point of dying in a fiery car crash before she has a chance to spill her guts? Unless he_ is _an Other. Maybe he spent his whole life on the Island and doesn't know how to drive.

She glances over at him. Damn, his profile is fine. He's clenching his jaw. Hot. And his forearms clutching the steering wheel . . . Phew. She's had angry, aggressive sex before . . . her imagination starts to run wild, but his music is so loud. _Bawitdaba da bang a dang diggy diggy diggy _is hammering at her brain.

Before she knows it, they're turning off the freeway, through some commercial streets, and into a fancy pants neighborhood in Beverly Hills. She vaguely recognizes it. Didn't she go to some retirement party for one of Jack's colleagues up here? Maybe. Jimmy makes a few more turns, passes a house, turns at the corner, then pulls into the driveway. The house is nice, but modest, and Kate's somewhat surprised. Not sure what she was expecting. An underground lair or bunker or something? Something more Dharma station than this tasteful yellow house with a nicely manicured lawn, three car garage, frayed basketball hoop.

Jimmy cuts the ignition. The music stops, leaving them in blessed silence. The headlights are still on, though, lighting up the garage doors. He sighs deeply, and leans back against the headrest. He raises both hands to his face, rubs up under his glasses, and sighs again.

"I shouldn't have brought you here, Kate," he says.

_Well, no shit. But, too bad. I'm here now, so let's just get it over with. _

She just stares at him.

He continues, "I was angry. I_ am_ angry. I mean, I had this whole seduction thing thought out. Thought I was gonna get laid tonight," he chuckles, looks over at her apologetically, not lifting the back of his head from the headrest. "Anyway, when things went crazy back there, I mean, there's this part of me that felt so sorry for you. But a bigger part was angry, and. . . and, well, anyway, I just wanted to prove a point. Make fun at your expense, I guess. All because I wasn't gonna get laid. I'm . . .I'm not that crude. I hope you don't think I'm that crude. I shouldn't've brought you here."

She's going to miss him. Even if he is fake. Even if this is all just an act. She's going to miss him, miss the idea of him. There was something about being with Jimmy that brought hope back to her life. His normality. His decency. And, yeah, the way he smiled at her that made her insides go a little loopy. And after tonight, no more. She was so stupid to think anything in her life could ever be hopeful like this. Not while all these lies are still hanging.

"I should've gone back," she whispers. She should have gone back to the island with the rest of them. Put an end to this. "I should've gone back," she whispers again. "Everything would've turned out so different."

Jimmy squints at her, jerks a thumb behind him. "You want me to take you back home?" he asks.

She should've gone back to put an end to it. But she didn't. She'll put an end to it now. "No," she sighs. "Let's just get this over with. Take me in to meet your 'parents.'" She actually uses the air quotes when she says 'parents' this time. She's not hiding anything anymore.

Jimmy shakes his head. "Kate, listen, I really don't know what this is all about. Or what happened to you, but . . . What you said about my dad . . .and, you know . . . sex?" She stares at him, unwavering. He squints again, leans in closer to her. "You realize my dad's gonna be 70, right?"

"Whatever you say, Jimmy."

He rubs his head, blows out air in a big, loud burst. "All right," he says. "Let's go in. At the very least, my mom'll probably give you tea or something."

She opens her own car door, and follows him. There's a little path leading off the driveway and up to the front door. "Watch it," he grabs her elbow as she steps off the path just a bit. There's a spot of dead grass. Jimmy explains, "Came home drunk one night senior year, and puked all over the bushes right there. Ten years later, my folks still can't figure out why the grass won't grow."

So elaborate, this ruse, with its little back stories.

The porch light is indeed on. Jimmy opens the unlocked front door. "After you," he waves her in, but hell, no. She's not going in first. If she goes in first, with Jimmy behind her, well then they'll have her surrounded, won't they? Just like they want. She shakes her head no. Jimmy rolls his eyes, then wipes his feet a few times on the welcome mat. Kate almost laughs. Guy can't not be polite.

They step into a dimly lit entrance foyer. Kate sees what are probably framed 'family photos' all over the walls, but it's too dim to make any out. Only the one on the wall nearest the lamp on a side table. A close-up of a little boy, smiling wide, tongue sticking out through a mouth with no front teeth. He's got his thumbs stuck in his ears, waggling his four fingers. It's Jimmy. Maybe seven years old? On the table is a framed photo of a bride. Kate recognizes the woman from Jimmy's fridge. His sister.

And then it hits her. She's blown it. She's blown it royally. This isn't some Others lair. Some creepy hideout. Some elaborate ruse to get under her skin. This is real. Jimmy's just a real, normal guy. This is just some real, normal family. She remembers how she used to see _them _everywhere. The ghosts. Claire in her bedroom. Rose at her drycleaners. Bernard at the ATM. Fuck. She wishes she could go back. Go back to Jimmy's apartment. Go back thirty minutes ago. Look at that picture again. It's too late now. No matter what happens tonight, he already thinks she's crazy. Hell, she _is_ crazy. Let's face it. If she looked at that picture again, no way would she see Sawyer and Juliet. What a fucking bizarre idea, and now she's blown it with Jimmy, all because she can't stop seeing ghosts everywhere she goes.

"Hellooooo?" Jimmy calls out.

"Kitchen, Jimmy," she hears his mom call back.

Now's the chance to call it off.

"Follow me," he says.

She does follow him. She doesn't follow him because she thinks she can repair things with him. No, she realizes she's blown it with him (and blown it in a completely different way than she'd hoped for).

She doesn't follow him because she thinks she's going to have a confrontation with the Others.

No, she follows him simply because maybe his mom will make her some tea. For years now, her life has been crumbling, and she's tried to patch it with a life on the run, with a fake husband, with Jack, with Aaron, hell, maybe even with Jimmy. But now all she wants is Jimmy's mom to make her some tea. Truth be told, she wants_ her _mom to make her some tea. She wants _her_ mom to act happy (to actually be happy) when she calls up and randomly wants to drop by. She wants_ her _dad (she wants Sam) to leave the porch light on for her. She can't have any of those things, but maybe tonight, maybe for a wee little bit, Jimmy's mom can make her some tea and can tut tut over her, and Jimmy's dad can worry that she's warm enough and ask her lame and embarrassing dad questions.

She follows Jimmy into the kitchen. It's bright in there, and she stays hidden behind Jimmy, for once glad he's so much bigger than she is. She notices his mom first. She's pulling something from the microwave. It's a glass Pyrex measuring cup with melted butter and she's turning toward the center island, where a big bowl of popcorn waits. She's tall and slim and has really pretty silver hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail. The first thing Kate thinks is that she looks like a prettier version of that woman who works with chimpanzees.

Jimmy's mom notices him now, and smiles at him. Her glance turns quizzical, trying to determine why exactly he came here tonight. She raises one eyebrow, puts a hand on her hip. Her eyes are so very familiar, because they are Jimmy's eyes. And also . . . and also. .. they are also.. also… well, no. No, that's not, not, it isn't possible that it . ..

Kate turns now to where Jimmy's dad is sitting on a bar stool, elbow propped on the center island. He's reading something from a piece of paper ("Fuckin' Miles," is what she thinks he may have been saying, gesturing at the paper, when Kate and Jimmy first entered the kitchen). Jimmy's dad's glasses are perched on the very tip of his nose. His hair is completely gray, maybe even white, but he's got all of it, and it's swept back off his forehead.

He looks up at Jimmy. "To what do we owe the pleasure, Jiminy Cricket?" he asks.

She's going crazy, right? This . . . this this isn't happening. What is happening? This. . . why won't her brain work? What? She squeezes her eyes tight. They've only been in the kitchen about two seconds, and she's still standing behind Jimmy. It will end soon, right? This . . . no. This is impossible. This is . . . this is . . .

"This is Kate," Jimmy says with a flourish, and kind of nudges her out from behind him. She stumbles forward.

"Oh my god," says Jul . . .no, how can that be. "Oh my god," says JIMMY'S MOM. JIMMY'S MOM. WHAT THE HELL?

Jimmy's dad (fuck fuck fuck fuck) takes off his glasses slowly, one earpiece stem at a time, and his mouth kind of drops open.

Jimmy's pressing his hand into her lower back, and it feels like he's pressing with greater and greater pressure. She realizes, too late, that he's not pushing harder, but she is falling back. The room is spinning and buzzing, and she hears _Sawyer_, holy shit, she hears _Sawyer _say "Son of a bitch" as she hits the floor.

Right before she loses consciousness, her brain does a funny thing. She sees that Jimmy's mom… scratch that . . . she sees that_ Juliet _has dropped the glass Pyrex cup to the floor. As Kate loses consciousness, she thinks "How weird. It didn't break." Because the rest of what she just saw? The rest of it is too weird for her brain to even process. No, a glass cup didn't break when it hit the floor. That's _weird_. The rest of it? The rest of it is impossible.

* * *

**THE END! **

**Ah ha ha ha, no. No, there is going to be more. Fallout and etc. I have to figure out from whose point of view to make all these various fallout scenes. Also, for the flashbacks, I have to figure out what order to put them in (and how steamy to make them, honestly). So, the story isn't over, but may be a break while I get it all figured out. I didn't want to take said break until Kate actually, you know, "met the parents."**

**Tia's line: "He gestures toward the front seat in an over-exaggerated fake-butler manner." I LOVE that. So descriptive, and my brain just couldn't think of a better way to say it. Don't kill me. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?**


	14. What Happened, Pt 1

Dharmaville Day 12

She's listened to all their arguments, and now it's up to her.

Daniel: "Whatever happened, happened."

She supposes this means that she always (and infinitely? How does it work?) made the same decision she's about to make. Always stayed – maybe. Always left – maybe. Whatever it was (is?), she always did it (does it?) and she's going to do it again. Too bad she doesn't know what it is she has always and will always do.

Miles: "Well, if you go, be sure to leave a forwarding address. Maybe I'll join you."

He's freaked out by his parents, but he doesn't want to make the leap of faith that USA 1974 represents. Not alone, at least.

James: "Blondie, you wanna go so bad, just go. Sounds like a lonely life out there to me. And you know what? When Locke gets back, gets us back to normal time? Well, soon as I get off this rock, I'm gonna hunt down your 70-year-old ass and laugh and laugh at the poor crazy old cat lady. 'Course, maybe you like cats . . ."

And, true. She's got more here on this damn Island than she does in 1974 America. Dammit. Dammit. The thought of it is too much to bear.

Jin: "Juliet, please stay with us."

It's so simple and honest and heartfelt.

She stays.

Dharmaville Day 19

She likes Eleanor, her roommate, just fine. The thing is, Eleanor, trying to be nice, is always asking her where she's from, where did she go to school? Oh, really? Well, did you know . . . ? And Juliet really needs to figure out a way to not talk too much about herself, because . .. well, who's even President now? Has Nixon resigned yet?

So, she's nabbed a book from Eleanor's room, and hiked over to the guys' cabin. She's halfway jealous that it's just them there, and halfway relieved she doesn't have to live all crammed in with the four of them. When she comes in, Miles is puttering around the kitchen, Jin sitting at the table eating a sandwich. They nod hello. They're already used to her coming to hang out here.

She sits on the couch, spies a stack of books on the end table._ East of Eden, 1984, Peyton Place. _On top, _To Kill a Mockingbird, _with a bookmark stuck toward the end. Oh this is so fantastic, she thinks. For one, to have a fellow book geek here raises her spirits immensely. For another, if he's reading books, that surely means he's starting to snap out of it, right?

She picks up the book, loses herself in it for a bit. Scout in her ham costume, Jem injured. She's eagerly flipping pages when Daniel walks in from one of the back bedrooms.

"Where did you find all these books?" she asks him. Then, "Tell me this isn't the first time you've read this," she holds up _Mockingbird_.

He squints, reads the title. "_To Kill a Mockingbird_? Uhm. Well, now, let's see . . ." He trails off, cocking his head to the side. Maybe she shouldn't have asked him two questions at once. "Well, now, that one . . ." he scratches his head. "Yes, I think I saw the movie one time."

James sweeps in from out of nowhere. He snatches the book from Juliet's hand. "The movie? Nah, man, you gotta read the book. Movie's good, I'll grant ya." He turns to Juliet, sitting with her mouth hanging slightly open. "You hear the rumor Truman Capote wrote this thing? I don't believe it. Ever read _In Cold Blood_?" She just nods. He continues, "I read it in prison. Ironic, huh?"

"These are your books?" she asks, incredulously.

"Ain't exactly mine. There's a library here. Open three nights a week. You can take out four books at a time," he gestures to the four on his end table.

Now, see while she was busy fretting and fretting about leaving, he was busy learning the ins and outs of Dharma. Getting them settled. Earning Dharma's trust.

"It's open tonight. Want me to show you?"

He walks her to the cabin just past the rec room. He brags on the book selection, tells her what he plans to get once he finishes the four he has now. Sure enough. Wow. A great selection. Especially since it's 1974 and all. She loses herself in the shelves for a long while. She picks four. Sees something else. Reconsiders, reshelves one, looks some more. She's made her final choices, when James reappears. Then another title catches her eye._ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory._ She pulls it from the shelf, and runs her fingers lightly over the cover. She sighs. "Back when I thought I'd have kids one day, I always thought the best part would be to read these great books again. Imagine hearing the stories for the first time, sharing that with them."

He looks at her, and his eyes are full of questions. She's momentarily shocked, realizing just how little he actually knows about her. Does he even know she was married once? And as for the other unanswered questions? Shoot, she probably couldn't even answer them. When did she stop dreaming of one day having a family? Who knows. She was never like Rachel, whose only real dream of life was to be a mom one day. No, she didn't yearn like that, but always imagined some future with a husband, kids, little league, scraped knees, sibling arguments. Somewhere along the line she just stopped thinking that way. No real tragedy, but not something she really cares to talk about.

"You know, ain't no rule that says only kids can read these things," he says, and _thank you for not asking_, she thinks.

"Well, I've already got my four," she holds up her stack. "Maybe next time."

"Lemme get it, then," he says.

She glances at the four books in his arms, thinks about the four he still has back at his cabin. "Didn't you say there's a four-book limit?"

"Just gotta flirt with the librarian is all."

She cuts her eyes to the woman behind the desk. Short, overweight, mousy brown hair, bad skin. She laughs. "I think I can wait."

"Come on," he wheedles. "Look, I can't get ya any kids." He pauses, considers that for a moment. "Well, I _could."_ He waggles his eyebrows, then thrusts out his hips, once, twice, in a gesture so over-the-top obscene she can't help but laugh. "I could," he repeats. "But I ain't gonna. So, just let me get the book. And between you and me?" He leans in close, secretive, glances furtively at the librarian. "I think the librarian is _hot_, and I been lookin' for an excuse to flirt."

"Fine." She gives him the book, and watches him go to work.

They leave the library together, and he gives the book back to her. "Don't say I never gave you nothin'."

She hugs _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ tight. "So, the prison library was better than that?" she asks. He was bragging on all he'd read in prison on the way over.

"Sure was," he says.

Dharmaville Day 27

When is she going to stop counting the days like this? Ever? She's on her way to the guys' cabin to switch out books with James. She passes Jin on the way there, and he tips an imaginary glass to his lips, pantomimes "bottoms up." Right. It's Friday. Means Miles and James are in their cups. She should probably just turn around and go back home. Miles and James drinking means Miles and James obsessing over Miles' parents and Kate, respectively.

Miles will go on and on about where he saw them, what they were doing (holding hands, smooching, staring at each other with moony eyes). And he'll complain that it's gross and icky and weird, and it's all of those things, yes, but enough! Talking about it's not going to make it better.

James, to his credit (or discredit) has three lines of thought regarding Kate, and it's a crapshoot as to which he'll be on. There's the obsessively rehashing the events of the "day the flashes started." He'll corner Jin, badgering him about all he can remember from the freighter. Since the guy exploded and lost his wife in one fell swoop, plus, doesn't really speak English, that never goes anywhere. So then James will fixate on how they may have survived and could someone have found them? Rescued them? How long can you survive without water? Food? How long to the US, do you suppose? And blah de blah de blah blah blah. In her charitable moments, Juliet actually finds all of this kind of charming – how much he really does care. In her less charitable moments, she just wants to scream, "GIVE IT A REST ALREADY!" He's not going to figure anything out, he will always wonder, so he might as well get used to it and stop hassling the rest of them over it.

Line of thought #2 is "I never woulda jumped if I knew I'd get stuck here with you people." She'd consider it hurtful, except, he doesn't _completely_ mean it, and besides, come on – the five of them are a talking dog and/or elderly neighbor short of being a crimefighting team or slapstick sitcom. Or both. A slapstick crimefighting team sitcom. She'll zone out imagining each of their super powers while James is complaining about each of their faults.

Line of thought #3 is the buzzsaw she's walking into right at this very moment. She opens the door to their cabin. "I don't know, ask Blondie," James accuses before she even shuts the door behind her. "She had a thing for him, too."

Ah, this is the "What's So Great About Jack?" line of thinking. She'd ignore, except when she does, that will trip off the "can't believe I'm stuck with you folks" complaint, with tonight's special emphasis: A focus on Juliet's inability to answer a question straight.

"I don't know," she settles into the couch, drops her book on the end table, picks up his copy of _Doctor Zhivago_. "I guess, among other things, I thought he could help me. He seemed like a white knight."

"No such thing as a white knight, sweetheart. Sooner you figure that out, the happier you'll be. Trust me – I made my livin' offa women still believin' in white knights."

"I appreciate the advice."

Miles, returning from the kitchen, hands Juliet a beer. "I'll be your white knight, Juliet," he says.

Dharmaville Day 3?

Juliet wakes, stretches, but keeps her eyes closed. Day three hundred and . . . Day three hundred and? Did she lose count? When did she lose count? (Last Sunday afternoon, she answers herself). Day three hundred and? Holy crap. She really has lost count.

Her eyes fly open, and there is James, staring at her.

"You been awake long?" she asks.

"Ten minutes, I guess."

"And you've just been staring at me?"

"Yep."

"Fascinating."

"You'd be surprised," he says. He reaches out an arm to pull her to him. How is he always so much warmer than she is? She stretches against him as he runs his hand down her side. Day three hundred and forty? Forty something? What was it on Sunday? He dips his head, and inhales deeply at her neck. Sunday? What was it on Sunday?

He kisses the spot where her shoulder meets the neck. Nibbles actually. Sunday. Six days ago? What was it then? She feels his tongue. Sunday . . . it was at LEAST day seven of the endless monsoon. It was cabin fever that lead to the "strip checkers" game (and thank goodness he has he own house now). She feels his tongue on her collar bone. Why'd they even make that lame strip checkers excuse? Sunday . . . it had been three hundred and . . . he has his nose in the hollow at the base of her neck, fingers in the hair at her shoulders. Three hundred and . . .

"Babe?" he asks.

"Hmmmmm?"

"I get the feeling you ain't all here." Good Lord, he's perceptive. And _amazing _in bed, one feeding off the other.

"I can't remember what day it is."

He raises his head to look her in the eyes. "Saturday. First day since we been . . ." he pauses, considers his words, and she wonders what he's going to call this. "since we been doin' this," he says. So, he's calling this, "this." Fine. "First day we got nowhere to be." He dips his head back down to the hollow of her neck, heading south. She grabs his hair to stop him.

"I've been counting the days since we've been her, and now I've lost track."

"I got a calendar in the kitchen, you can count later." There's an edge to his voice, and as she shifts her weight to push him off her, she can feel his arousal. And here she is obsessing over whether today's three hundred and forty seven? Maybe? Or was that it when she lost count? If it was three forty seven then, and it's been six days since "this," then, OK, 347 plus 6 equals. . .

She hears him sigh, feels his exhale her chest, and he rolls off.

"I'm sorry, James, it's just. . . I don't know. As long as I was counting, it was like one day it would be over. Now I've lost count. Maybe that means it will never be over."

He lies there for what seems a long while, silent. She turns to look at him, and sees that he's thinking, weighing his words. Finally, he speaks. "When we first got here, every night, before I went to sleep, I'd imagine what Kate might be doing." Juliet turns her face away. She's not sure how to react to this. Best to not react at all, or not let him see her react. He goes on. "Tonight she's floatin' on the water. Tonight they got rescued. Tonight she's havin' her first real shower in months. Today she had her first car ride. Like that. Every single night."

He pauses for awhile, thinking. She risks looking back at him, but he's staring at the ceiling now. "A few months ago, I had to sign some stuff for Horace. Signed my name, initialed here and there. Dated it. March 8. Her birthday." He knows Kate's birthday? Does he know _her_ birthday? He looks at her, and she must be giving something away, because he pokes his index finger at the bridge of her nose. She crosses her eyes to look at it and he slides it all the way to the tip, taps her there. "November 17," he says, answering her question. "Girls like it when you remember birthdays, anniversaries, shit like that," he explains.

He clears his throat and picks up his story. "Anyway, I sign this document for Horace. March 8. 'Holy shit,' I think. 'Kate's birthday, and I ain't thought of her in months.' I mean, never even crossed my mind. She was the last thing I thought of before I went to sleep – every night, and then sometime, it just stopped. And I didn't even realize it. That's when I stopped feelin' so trapped here. Decided to start livin'"

She does some math. Not the kind that will help her figure out if today is 347 or 352 or something else entirely. She does figure, though, that this was nearly three months ago. Right around the time he finally told Horace he'd take the Head of Security job. Right around the time he got his own house.

"Just start living, huh?" she asks.

"Yeah, or you know what? Take it a step at a time. Do like parents do with kids. First they're like 8 days old, then they say they're how many months old, next thing you know, they're just countin' in years."

"Why do you even know the first thing about how parents talk about kids?" she asks. He stills completely, and shit. Shit shit shit. She did not mean that. No. "Oh, James. I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ." She's running her hand over his chest, and he stops it, covers it with his hand.

"I know," he says in a "that's that" voice. That's that and this is this, whatever it is. Amazing, fun sex and a relationship with no future, and she's OK with it. Sure, she sometimes lets her mind go a little wild. Fantasizes about the perfect future. They get rescued and go their separate ways and five years down the road he calls her up out of the blue. He's in Miami and since neither one of them is seeing anyone (or, hell, even if they are), they meet at some hotel and have an afternoon of mindbending sex. Sometimes when she really imagines the perfect future, he sticks around just long enough for her to introduce him to Rachel. In this fantasy, Rachel's eyes bug out a little when she sees just how hot this man is. And maybe that's too much to hope for. Rescue, reunion, Rachel. But what other kind of future is there with him?

"So I talked about a previous sex partner, then you made a disparaging remark about my shitty fatherhood skills. Great start to our Saturday. Maybe next you can compare sizes of all the men you've been with."

_Yeah, all four of them, she thinks._ She reaches down now to take hold of him. "You'd compare quite favorably, I'd say." He stiffens and grows quickly. So quickly in fact, she has to giggle. "All right, sir, I think you'd win, hands down." And he would. She'd always believed the old 'size doesn't matter' adage. Turns out, a man with size who knows how to use it? Yes, _please._

And when he's on top of her, smiling like he does, with his hand on her hips, moving her with him, she thinks of her perfect future fantasy and adds just a little (not too much, she hopes, no point in really getting her hopes up), but maybe, just maybe . . . they could make their hotel trysts a regular thing, twice a year maybe. And maybe he'd still call her on the phone from time to time. Talk about books with her. Is she hoping for too much?


	15. The Time Traveler's Wife

All is black. Kate sees nothing, but feels her mother's hands on her face. They are gentle, soothing. They run over her forehead, cheeks, rub at her temples. She turns her face slightly, seeking their comfort.

"Kate? Kate?" her mother asks, at her right ear, worried, concerned. Oh, God, how much she's missed this. The warm, reassuring, comforting mother's touch. Why is her mother calling her "Kate"? She's always been Katherine. "Mom?" she chokes out.

"Come on now, Freckles, wake up now, come on," At her other ear. Sawyer? That's Sawyer's voice. What's that whooshing roaring sound in her ears? Shit. She's back. Back at the Island. Never left, probably? _Aaron!_ Her heart lurches a little bit. Was it all a dream?

"Can someone please explain what the_ hell _is going on?" A loud, insistent question, from somewhere in the clouds, maybe, and_ yes, please, tell me while you're at it, _Kate thinks.

"Give us some space, would you?" asks . . . whoever's at her right ear, and, well, it's not her mom, is it?

She turns her head to the side, and cracks her eyes ever so slightly. All she can see is a pair of expensive, designer loafers backing up a step or two. Big loafers. Hard soles, shiny, fancy leather. Very impractical for the beach . . . and now kitchen tiles. Wait. Where is she?

"What the hell's wrong with her?" Again from the clouds, no, from the wearer of the loafers . . .

"Stop shouting, Jimmy." Jimmy's mom. That's who's rubbing her head. She was going to make Kate some tea. That's why they're here.

The roar crescendos, crests, and silences. She's not at the beach. She's in Jimmy's kitchen. No, Jimmy's parents' kitchen.

"Freckles, you with us?"

Sawyer?

She squeezes her eyes shut again.

"Somebody better start explaining real soon," Jimmy accuses. "You know what she told me? Holy shit . . . holy shit. Oh my God. OHMYGOD. Did you fuck her, Dad?"

Jimmy. Jimmy's dad. Sawyer.

Kate hears, "Watch your mouth, son." The person on her left. Sawyer, holy shit. Sawyer rises to confront Jimmy. Kate hears Sawyer's knees pop, creak as he stands up to confront his son.

"I know you're awake," Jimmy's mom murmurs. Juliet. Holy fucking shit. _How . . . How. . .I don't understand. _Kate risks opening her eyes. Juliet's facing away so the guys can't see her.

"I don't . .." Kate starts. "What's happening?"

The men hear her, turn their heads her way.

"James, help me get her up," Juliet says. Sawyer steps over, creaks down again, and puts an arm under her armpit. She can't look at Jimmy. What is she supposed to say? She doesn't understand. She's being lifted, and the hands under each arm are sure, comforting, strong. She dares to glance at Jimmy, and he's staring at the three of them, betrayal and hurt clear as day in his eyes, but she can't tell if he's looking at her, at his dad, his mom.

"Let's take her to the den," Juliet states, and it's clear she's the one in charge of the situation.

"Yep," Sawyer agrees readily.

"Give us a few minutes, 'K, Jimmy?" Juliet asks gently.

"Nuh uh. No way. I want to know what's going on here. You owe me answers, dammit."

Kate feels the grip on her left arm tighten considerably as Sawyer turns to Jimmy. "You do not talk to your mother that way, young man," he barks. Kate's head is still swimming. She does NOT understand. She wants answers, too.

"It's ok, it's ok," Juliet soothes. "Just wait, Jimmy, please."

"Screw this," he says. He turns on his heels to leave.

Juliet calls his bluff. "Fine, sweetheart. Talk to you later."

Just like that, he stops, throws his keys on the counter, and slouches into the barstool his father recently vacated. "Fine. Fine. This better be good."

"Let's go," Juliet immediately heads them toward the den, before Jimmy can change his mind.

They turn a corner, slide open oak-paneled doors, and step into the den. One wall a fancy home theater set up. Another a wall of books. Of course. Suddenly Kate remembers Sawyer sitting, reading, his glasses . . .

Sawyer and Juliet ease Kate down into a leather couch. She keeps her head down, staring at the space between her knees. What if she passes out again? There's a Netflix envelope on the floor. Oh, that's right. It's their movie night. That's concrete. Flat screen TV, popcorn, DVD, movie night.

"Want a drink?" Sawyer asks.

Kate keeps her eyes down, nods.

"Please," she hears Juliet answer. Hears Sawyer at a liquor cabinet pouring a drink, and, damn, he was asking _her_ first. What? He _hates_ Juliet.

"How 'bout you, Freckles?"

"Yes," she whispers, not even looking up. A few seconds later, he presses a nice crystal tumbler of booze into her hands. She dares to look up. Juliet's on the other side of the room, downing whatever it is she's drinking. Sawyer's sitting on a desk, directly across from Kate, rolling a glass back and forth in his hands.

Juliet speaks. "Time travel."

Kate takes a long sip. "Excuse me?"

"You want to know what's going on. Time travel. We went back in time."

Kate chokes on her drink. Whiskey? Coughs, suppresses a laugh. That's absurd, and she says so. "Time travel? Really? You expect me to believe that?"

Sawyer scoffs. "Nah, Kate. These last three years have just been really tough on us. We haven't aged well." He rolls his eyes, shakes his head. "And then there's Jimmy," he gestures at the closed door, out toward where Jimmy was last seen slumped in a bar stool, blazing anger. "We just hired some guy to act like our son."

Uhm, so, that's actually kind of one of the scenarios she'd imagined, but now . . .

"The day you all left, when the sky lit up, what happened?" Juliet asks.

"The Island, it just, it just disappeared."

"Yeah. It went back in time. Or we did," Juliet says. She and Sawyer share look. "Well, we never quite figured that part out."

It, well, it kind of makes sense, in the Island way. She can't help but be skeptical, though. "How far back in time?" she finally asks.

"We ended up in 1974," Sawyer says.

"Ended up?"

"There was some back and forth for a few weeks, but yeah. We've been living like this since 1974."

"Here?"

"We left the Island in 1977," Juliet answers. And that wasn't exactly the question Kate asked, was it? Some things never change.

Kate does some quick math. They've been out here for 31 years. Thirty one years. She glances over to Sawyer. He's still rolling his glass in his hands. A wedding band shines in the dim light of the den. Damn. Kate's had to lie for three years. Three years of pretending to be Aaron's mom. The lie's a bitch, but the life is pretty damn good.

Sawyer, though. THIRTY ONE YEARS he's had to live this lie? With _her_? How is it they didn't kill each other? Living a lie sucks, but living a lie you don't actually _like_? Jesus.

Except, wait. There's Jimmy. So, that doesn't quite add up, but of course they could have rescued some kid off the Island, like she did. But, no, God, how clear is it that he looks just like them? Jesus. He really is their son, and so . . . Wait. Wait. What? And he has a sister, too, so that's at least twice, and . . . what? What.

She turns to look at the wall on her right, the one she didn't see coming in. It's got framed photos on it. Just like the entrance hall. There are pictures of the Sawyer she remembers, of the Juliet she remembers. Sitting in a porch swing. Sawyer with a little girl on his shoulders. Jimmy dressed as an astronaut and his sister dressed like a clown. Jimmy wearing a mortarboard and gown holding his Stanford diploma. His sister in a wedding dress, kissing some guy in a tux. Damn. Damn. Damn. How'd they do it? How'd they just live a normal life?

She tears her eyes from the wall of photos. "Where'd you get all the money?" she asks. Others? Dharma? Widmore? Who's paying them to keep all their secrets?

"Stock market's a breeze when you know the future," Sawyer answers. Holy crap. They just _did it_. Just living. They aren't lying to anyone. No, no, that's not completely true. Jimmy must not know, if his reaction tonight is any guide. "Does Jimmy know?" she asks.

Sawyer shakes his head. Juliet just stares at her, and oh, fuck. She was going to sleep with their SON tonight for Christ's sake. Oh, fuck.

"What's going on with you two, anyway?" Juliet asks.

"We met at a coffee shop a while ago, and then ran into each other at the dog park a few weeks ago." _And I really liked him. God, I liked him._ "We . . .uh, tonight was, uhm,_ supposed_ to be our third date." She looks at Juliet. _Please, please, please get what I'm saying here. I have NOT screwed your son, OK? Don't make me say it, and please don't ask. _

Juliet lets out a sigh. Nods at her. _Got it._

The three of them stare at each other for a few beats. Now what? Kate breaks the silence. "Jack went back for you all. God, if he'd only known you all were in the 70s . . ." Kate doesn't miss the look that passes between Juliet and Sawyer. "What?" she demands. No answer. "What?"

"He did come back. He did, and Hurley and Sayid," says Sawyer.

"What?" ('what?' seems to be her word of choice tonight)

Sawyer nods.

"Is he . . is he here?" she asks him. Is there an old man Jack out there somewhere? Why hasn't he come to see her? She wouldn't care about his age. Just to know he's OK. _I could be with him instead of wasting my time with your son._ She almost immediately regrets that thought. It's not fair to Jimmy, who seems to be a fantastic guy. Hell, it's not fair to Sawyer.

"No." Sawyer answers. "Don't know where he is." He's shifting his weight, suddenly looks uncomfortable on the desktop. He cuts his eyes over to Juliet, as does Kate. There is something they're definitely not telling her.

"What?" Kate blurts (and there's that word again). "What is it? What aren't you telling me?"

Sawyer and Juliet keep staring at each other. Kate doesn't catch anything obvious, and no words are spoken, but the two of them are very clearly having some kind of silent conversation Kate has no hope of interpreting.

"It was a long time ago, Kate," Juliet offers.

"It wasn't even a _year_ ago."

More shared looks. Kate wishes they'd stop doing that.

"There was an incident," Sawyer finally says. That sounds ominous. "Electromagnetism or some shit like that. Then another one of them white flashes. When it was all over, they were gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

He shrugs.

"And how is it _**you**_ didn't disappear?" she asks/accuses. Typical. Just typical. Looking out for himself, was he? And holy hell, this is totally at odds with everything she now remembers Jimmy saying about his dad. What what what.

"I wasn't there."

"And you?" she turns her wrath on Juliet, just standing silently on the other side of the room. Juliet just shakes her head 'no.' Irrationally, Kate is furious with them. Why weren't they there? They could have done something. If they were there, it would all be different. Jack would be OK. Instead, here they are rich, dumb, and happy. Fuck them. They should have been there. They should have been there. If they had been there, this 'incident,' as he so casually calls it, would have been different. They should have been there.

_No. No, that's not it. That's not fair_, she thinks. _I should have been there._ That's the truth. She's transferring her anger to them. If she had gone back, she would have been there. This is her fault, not theirs..

"Kate, I'm so sorry," Sawyer says. "You know how he was. Got a bug up his ass about somethin'. Had to go runnin' off like a wild man. I . . . I woulda stopped him if I could of."

She doesn't want to let them see her cry. She wishes she could . . . well, damn, she wishes she could cry to Jimmy. Or, well, the Jimmy she thought he was before she knew who he really was. She could imagine him embracing her in a big hug. He'd say, "It's all right. It's all gonna be OK." He'd make a joke, or he'd laugh, because he's so nice and friendly and fun and NORMAL. Except she could never look him in the eyes again, never think how pretty they were, without seeing his MOTHER. And his smile? Well, yeah. His FATHER.

So, instead, she just stares at the floor. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

The silence in the room isn't uncomfortable, isn't oppressive. It's just three people lost in thought.

"Now what?" Juliet breaks the silence. And Kate thought Juliet was supposed to be in charge. Why doesn't she just tell them what's next?

Sawyer cocks his head to the side almost imperceptibly, and Juliet takes this as an invitation to go sit right next to him on the desk. Right up against him, like shoulder to hip, and Kate's first reaction is to think "Back off of him," but, gah, how stupid is that? Juliet is his _wife_. His _wife_. My God. Kate watches him take Juliet's left hand in his right, intertwining their fingers, resting their clasped hands on his right thigh. What? Just weird, weird, weird.

Kate averts her eyes, and looks at the wall of pictures again. There's one of Sawyer, almost exactly the Sawyer she remembers, and he's holding a tiny baby. Sawyer's got a look on his face of something like awe. The baby's all wrapped up in a blanket, just a tiny face peeking out. The picture's black and white, so there's no telling if the blanket's pink or blue or if this is Jimmy or his sister (and what's her name anyway? Kate can't remember).

She remembers asking, "Would it have been the worst thing in the world?" and him answering, "Yes, yes it would have been the worst thing in the world. What would we have done with a baby?" Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Kate concentrates on the little things to stop her mind. The Netflix envelope. A coffee mug sitting on the floor by the couch. It's sitting on one of those subscription cards that falls out of magazines.

"Think we gotta tell the kids the truth now," Sawyer says. Kate looks back at him, but, of course he's not talking to her. He's talking to his _wife_.

Juliet rests her head on his shoulder. Their hands are still all wrapped up in each other. Kate notices how teeny tiny Juliet's diamond is. Wonders why, given how wealthy they are. Sawyer lifts their hands to his lips, kisses the back of Juliet's hand. Ew. Weird weird weird. What's weirder? The two of them together? Or that they're old?

The old. She can concentrate on that better. They're like an old couple from a cholesterol drug commercial. Her hair is all gray (well, a very pretty silver, actually), his is mostly white. They've got age spots on their hands, wrinkles on their faces. Still, though . . . she can imagine them on a drug commercial, narrator droning on and on about side effects while the old couple plays golf, walks a dog, rides top-down in a convertible. Message being: "Our drugs aren't going to make you any younger, but once you get your cholesterol numbers down, look! You can be as active, energetic, and, best of all, as attractive as these folks here! Just because you're old, doesn't mean you have to be ugly. Lower your cholesterol!"

"The truth," Juliet says. "Don't even know what that is anymore."

"Had to happen sometime," he says.

"Guess I was always hoping it wouldn't."

Should Kate excuse herself? She feels like she's intruding on a private moment or something. Then again, it doesn't seem like they even register her presence, and what would she even say to Jimmy if she left this room? So she sits. Stares at the floor some more. The mug has the call letters of the local NPR station, the magazine subscription card is from _Sports Illustrated_. The Netflix envelope is for _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_. Johnny Depp.

No one's saying anything. Kate decides to clear her throat. Just a reminder she's still here, in case they get some idea to do something weird or gross like, ugh, make out or something. Which they won't, right? Because they're old. Right? And also: Sawyer and Juliet. Just, no, no, no.

Juliet looks at her, looks through her, actually. "We need to call Rachel, I guess." Rachel! That's it. Kate's been struggling to remember Jimmy's sister's name. His _older _sister. Jesus, is this chick Kate's age? When they look at Kate do they see their daughter? Jesus.

"Why don't we make sure Mr. Chips is still out in the kitchen, first," Sawyer suggests. Juliet nods. He lets go of her hand, puts his now-free hand on her back. They stand, and . . . OK, that's it? Kate's got more questions. Like how come Jimmy's last name is LaFleur? And how did they survive on the Island? And why did they leave? And did they talk to Jack? And what what what what?

"Let's go, Freckles," Sawyer says, finally (finally) remembering that she's Still. Right. Here. She stands, and he actually holds out a hand to help her up.

"Thanks," she mumbles at the floor.

He slides open the doors from the den, and waves his hand "After you," he says to Kate. She kind of stumbles out the door. They're right behind her, and she hears Sawyer mutter, "Here we go, babe. Got your back, remember?"

OK. Moment of truth. Or one of them, at least.


	16. What Happened, Pt 2

They've put her back up under the van to finish what she was doing . . . had it only been three days ago? Four? Does it matter? She has to finish what she was doing when James pulled her out, yeah, three days ago to deliver Amy's baby. God, once upon a time, she counted days into the three hundreds. Now she can't keep three straight.

Anyway, she's back under the van, and quite frankly, she's glad. She can just stick her head up under here. No one will bother her. She's got too much to think about to be bothered. Hopes James is all right. She'd overslept this morning, and had to rush out of the house without really asking about his plans. He was supposed to be heading off to meet Richard. Or find Sayid. Or both. Something.

Actually, she was surprised to find him still there this morning. She thought he'd planned to leave before dawn. He said something about Faraday being back.

She really should've stuck around to ask him more, but she was already running late, hadn't been to the garage in three days . . . and that's another thing to think about. She crossed paths with Horace on the way home last night, and he said, "We _really_ need to talk, Juliet." Was he going to ask her to start doctoring again? Would she say yes?

She _had_ just delivered Amy's baby. She _had_ just saved Baby Ben. Well, Jack did the heavy lifting, there, but let's face it, not without a little prodding.

* * *

"He says he won't come," James said.

"Did you tell him how serious this is? That he might die?"

"Yeah, yeah, I told him all that shit just like you said, but he just sat there. Said if he dies, he dies."

She shook her head, squeezed her temples. "He's just a kid, James. I'm not just going to stand around and watch a child die."

"If you got any great ideas about how to change the Doc's mind, I'm all ears."

"Bring him here."

"What?"

"I don't care if you have to bring him at gunpoint. Just bring him here."

And so he had. Not at gunpoint, exactly, but with enough threat to get him off the couch and into the Infirmary. Juliet grabbed Jack by the elbow and pulled him to the sick room.

"Look at him," she commanded. Jack did as he was told. "He's a thirteen-year-old _boy_, Jack."

Jack looked a little chastened, but still shook his head. "He's Ben Linus."

"You think I don't know that? Maybe he is, but right now he's just a kid. A kid who's gonna die if you don't do something about it."

"Miles said that whatever happened happened. And I know what's going to happen is you're going to ask me to do the same damn thing about thirty years from now. What happened, happened."

She sighed and rubbed her hand over her forehead. "It's totally weird, I know. But it's not an excuse to not do the right thing. I need you to do this. Please." She placed a hand on his forearm, looked at him with her Big Sad Eyes. The ones that make James say, "Well, shit, how do you expect me to say no to that?" She actually felt a little sick trying to flirt Jack into doing this (or maybe it was just the constant adrenaline of the past eight hours making her woozy). "Please," she whispers.

He just stared at her for what seemed an eternity. She could hear the insistent beeps and alarms hooked up to Ben. "Fine," he finally agreed. All it took was two hours of surgery (or, only two hours after the _eight_ she'd already futilely put in). Just like that, Ben was fixed.

* * *

Maybe she should have taken today off, but she thinks she may want to keep this job, and she's just missed three days. Besides, the beauty of the job is she can just keep herself under the van until lunch at least. She wonders again if James is OK. Tonight they'll have time to talk. She can't believe they're still in the clear – as long as Sayid gets away. Jack's not going to sit around in Dharmaville twiddling his thumbs for very long, though.

She can't _believe _she once thought of him as a white knight, and now he has to be guilted into saving a child. What happened to him? And it's not like they can actually sit down over coffee and hash it out. Not without raising suspicions (if their little impromptu MASH recreation yesterday isn't already raising suspicions). Jack is definitely the fly in the ointment.

James had been right. "No such thing as a white knight." But also: "Sooner you figure that out, happier you'll be." Ain't that the truth. For once in her life she didn't need a man for validation or companionship or as a way off of this place. She was a mechanic, and the only validation she needed was doing her job well. Companionship she had in the form of Jin, Miles, and James. And, well, if she was waiting for a white knight to rescue her from this place, she assumed it would be some combination of Dan Faraday, John Locke, and Pierre Chang.

She _so_ did not see this thing with James coming. In retrospect, well, duh. _Of course_. But, sure enough, just as he said, it only happened when she stopped looking for a white knight.

That said, she couldn't resist tweaking him over it. When had that been? Two weeks ago? Ten days? God, but time had started to get weird. (_Started to?_)

* * *

The trouble call was "LaFleur's Jeep broke down."

She pretty much never took calls involving James. She used to, but she'd go out to fix his problem, and he'd spend the whole time making suggestive remarks, leering, trying to entice her into a little "jungle rumble." He was halfway kidding, but only halfway. This was her _job_, though, and as the "only chick in the garage," she was _not_ going to be the one caught getting nookie on a trouble call. So, she'd spend the whole time putting off his advances. Then, she'd make it back to the garage, and they'd just _assume_ she'd messed around some while she was out. Very very very frustrating. Frustrating enough that she stopped taking any trouble call involving James.

But two weeks ago (ten days?) the trouble call was "LaFleur's Jeep broke down," and there was no one else to take it. She rumbled out in a van to Sector 123, and spied him sitting on the hood of his Jeep, in the shade, glasses on, reading a paperback. He'd stripped out of his jumpsuit and was in jeans and a white t-shirt.

Her heart swelled, seeing him like that, not expecting her, unguarded. He had his glasses perched on the end of his nose, his hair blowing in the breeze, his arms tanned, patiently sitting on his Jeep waiting for help. He looked calm and at peace. When he heard the van approach he quickly shifted to a "LaFleur-in-Charge" impatient, mean face. When he saw who was driving the van he broke into a huge smile, and her stomach fluttered to think that this smile was for _her_.

He leapt down from the Jeep. "Well, looky who my white knight is," he drawled.

"Ain't no such thing as a white knight, sweetheart," she mocked. "Sooner you realize that, happier you'll be."

He laughed. "Fair enough," he said, and kissed her.

"Mmmmmmm," she kind of hummed. He smelled good. He tasted good. She shook her head to clear it. Wasn't she supposed to be working? "What seems to be the problem, sir?"

He chuckled. "Just ran out of gas." An easy fix, but she prepared to lecture him on watching the gauge, keeping the tank at least a quarter full. It was regulation – regulation set by him. He clarified, "Real problem is the gauge. It's reading three-quarters full."

"All right," she said, sliding open the van door, pulling out the gas canister. Filling his tank would be easy. They'd have to fix the rest back at the shop. He leaned against the side of the van, watching as she shoved the nozzle of the canister into the hole of the gas tank. As she stuck it in, she looked at him, "Don't even start," she warned, trying to ward off sexual innuendo.

"I ain't said a word," he said, laughing.

She filled his tank, handed him a clipboard, had him sign off. She replaced the empty canister in the back of the van, made her preparations to leave.

"Off so soon, Speedy Gonzalez?" he asked her.

"Is there something else you need?" she replied.

"Want an honest answer to that question?" he chuckled. "Nah, I mean, it's a nice day. Come sit with me a spell."

And, hell, she thought this trouble call would take a lot longer than it did. She had the time to spare. She relented. He hopped back up on the hood of the Jeep, and she joined him there, both of them resting their feet on the front bumper. She unzipped her jumpsuit, tied the arms of it around her waist. He looked over at her, down the front of her tank top. She should've probably pretended to be offended, or reminded him she was supposed to be working. She didn't though, just let him look. She even shifted her weight a little, just to give him a better view, and _what_ was she thinking?

"What're you reading?" she asked, just to get his eyes somewhere else.

He held up a Louis L'Amour paperback. Cowboy novel – not her thing. She just nodded, not really having anything to say about that. They sat in silence for what seemed a long time. It was quiet here, and not unbearably hot under the shade of the trees he'd parked under. She felt overwhelmingly at peace, just sitting with him in silence. She bumped her shoulder against his and he bumped back. Then he bumped again, keeping his shoulder against hers for a bit longer this time. She didn't move away. He put his right hand on the inside of her left knee, held it there just a bit, started rubbing his fingers there.

"Well," he said. "I know how you hate mixin' up business and pleasure, so I guess you better be headin' back." He said this while moving his fingers lightly up the inside of her thigh.

"OK," she squeaked out, in a teeny tiny voice.

He kept his hand at her thigh, turned the rest of his body toward her. He faced her. "I'll see ya tonight, then?" he asked, grinning widely, closing the inch gap to kiss her. The kiss was chaste enough, except his hand was all the way to the top of her thigh, and she couldn't quite think straight.

"Mmmmmm hmmmm. Yeah," she breathed against his mouth.

"Yeah, what?" Well, she _meant_, yeah, she needed to be heading back, she'd see him tonight. But mmmmm hmmm, yeah, had come out a lot more breathless and moany than she'd meant it to.

She didn't answer his question, just held on to his bicep. He removed his hand from between her thighs, to grasp her face. And, wait, no, that's _not_ what she wanted. She wanted him to put his hand back where it had been, but he was leaning all the way over her now, and was just a bit unsteady on the hood of the Jeep. He put a hand down on the hood to brace himself, and the metal warped and twanged. She giggled for an instant before he started kissing her again.

He pushed her back on the hood of the Jeep, and she let out a little yelp. Something digging into her back. Wiper fluid nozzle, she thought (those were _always_ getting jammed). He heard her yelp, and moved her a little.

He stopped kissing her then, and she sat up to grab his head. "Don't stop," she said, misinterpreting his actions.

"I'm just gettin' started, baby," he said, somehow simultaneously sliding off the Jeep's hood and untying the jumpsuit arms at her waist. He slid her down the front of the hood, pulling her to him, and started kissing her neck, sliding the tank top straps off her shoulders. She let her head loll back and

BANG BANG BANG BANG

* * *

Well! Well, it had been a lot more than just bang bang bang, thank you very much.

BANG BANG BANG BANG

Oh, that's not her memory. That's someone banging on the van to get her to slide out. Last time that happened, it was James telling her Amy's baby was coming. She slides out reluctantly. She doesn't like being disturbed from her rather pleasant daydream. Much better than worrying about what's going to happen if Sayid gets caught again, or if Jack starts making a ruckus about anything.

Mac is frantically waving and yelling. It's loud in the garage. Loud everywhere, she realizes. Are those the warning sirens? Oh, this isn't good.

She stands up. "What?" she asks Mac.

"Evacuation," he says, and the word doesn't quite make sense. Vacuum? Vacuum out the van? Shop vac? _What?_ "Women and children only," he clarifies, and she realizes he's not talking about sucking up dirt with a hose. "They want you down at the dock in twenty minutes." She's stuck. Rooted to the spot. She's known it since they got back. Known that their happy little domestic 70s life was shot. Even so, she still can't quite comprehend. What happened?

Mack grabs her shoulders, shakes her. "Go!" he yells.

Leaving the garage, she sees pandemonium. People running everywhere with bags, parents holding kids' hands, dragging them down to the dock. What the fuck just happened? And where is James?

Instead of running home, she runs to the security station. Phil's the only one there, and he's frantic and sweaty and short tempered. Not that far off from normal Phil behavior. "Phil, what's going on?" she asks.

"You gotta get outta here," he yells at her. She straightens to full height, feels her right hand twitch just a little bit, anxious to pop this weaselly sucker. "Evacuating women and children, haven't you heard?" he explains.

"Where's James?" she asks. He looks at her dumbly. Goddamn, what an idiot. "LaFleur. Jim," she clarifies. "Where is he?"

"Hell if I know," Phil whines. When he's feeling overwhelmed, whining is his fallback. James hates it. "He and Miles fucking went off the grid this morning. And now everything's going to shit, and The Great LaFleur is nowhere to be found."

Of course not. They went out to find Sayid, or failing that, find Richard. "What's going on now?" she asks.

"Classified," Phil responds. "LaFleur's policy, you know. Can't tell classified information to non-security team members." Oh for fuck's sake. Like LaFleur doesn't tell her every damn thing that happens down here. Jesus. She feels her right hand ball into a fist. Calm down, calm down, she tells herself. Mitch comes barreling down the stairs, though, before she has a chance to either punch Phil or calm down.

Noticing her, Mitch orders, "Juliet, you gotta get out of here. Women and children are evacuating. You got maybe 15 minutes to be at the dock."

Realizing this is a dead end and waste of precious times, she hustles back up the stairs. The bleating sirens blast at her head, and make it difficult to think. She bets Jack is behind this somehow. Dashes to his cabin, pounds on the door. No answer. Fuck. Now Phil's in the courtyard yelling through a megaphone. "Ten minutes," he warns the Dharma gaggle, all of them running around like fucking lunatics. Jesus.

She runs to her house, shuts the door, and the klaxon alarm sound is somewhat muffled in here. Think, think, think. Maybe she should just hide out somewhere, wait for this to pass. She peers out the kitchen window. She sees security team members with clipboards, taking muster. Dammit, another one of James' procedures. If she's not mustered in at the sub, will they hold up for her? And then if . . . whatever is happening happens, and the people aren't evacuated . . . will that be her fault? She can't have all these people's (friends) blood on her hands.

Surely cooler heads are going to prevail. She'll just play it by the book until they do. "Eight minutes," she hears fucking Phil and his megaphone. She runs to the bedroom, strips out of her jumpsuit. Too bad they haven't had any time to do laundry lately. She grabs yesterday's clothes from the floor. Jeans, red top. She's really not leaving is she? Should she really even pack? Couldn't hurt. She takes clean underwear from the top drawer, change of shoes, second pair of jeans, t-shirts. She dashes into the bathroom, rummages through the medicine cabinet, stuffs in toothpaste, toothbrush, razor. She grabs some paperbacks from the living room. She dashes off a hurried note, and leaves it on the kitchen counter next to their dirty breakfast dishes.

She catches a shuttle to the dock. She boards the sub. She sits. Cooler heads are going to prevail any minute, right? Dammit, Jack. He's behind this. She knows it.

Here comes a crew member with sedative. Everyone's just drinking up, like no big deal, like mindless pod people.

"Juliet," she's being offered sedative from a tray, and she thinks for a second that she could grab the back of the guy's head and knock it against her knee, make her great escape.

"Thanks," she murmurs, taking the tiny cup. She drinks. Hell, she could use a good rest. She'll wake up, here, right? This isn't really happening, right?

She rests her head on her bunk. She sees Lara Chang giving baby Miles sedative from a dropper. _That can't be good_, Juliet thinks. Except she knows baby Miles turns out OK. Kind of. Well, he turns out to be Miles. She'll give him shit about this next time she sees him. She will see him again, won't she? Everything starts to go fuzzy and tingly.

Her eyelids are heavy. She sees all the women and children around her, and she wants to scream that she shouldn't be here. She's neither. OK, of course, not true, but she thinks that where (when) she comes from, women could be allowed to stay behind if they wanted to. "Women and children." Harumph. Except she's probably the only one here who's currently both. She does the math. She's technically six, right? That qualifies as a child.

* * *

She comes to, her brain still fogged. It's bright here. She blinks, squints, rubs her eyes. Her limbs all feel a little bit too heavy. Wait. Wait! Where is she? She sits up. She's on a bus. What the hell? She sees familiar faces around her. Some snoozing, some wide awake, some in this in-between state she's in. It all comes flooding back. The evacuation. The sub.

Oh, Jesus Christ, she's been evacuated. . .

A dumpy man with a curly beard boards the bus. He clears his throat. Those who are alert turn to him expectantly. "I know it may take you all awhile to get your bearings," he begins. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Gerald DeGroot, and I'd like to welcome you to Ann Arbor, Michigan. Today is July 30, 1977."

Well, she's finally done it. Made it off the Island. Except six years too late, or maybe twenty four years too early.


	17. Interlude  James, 1982

**_January 16, 1982, Ann Arbor_**

They've had an honest-to-God date. A matinee movie (_Taps_, and it's downright weird watching baby Tom Cruise), dinner, even a drink after. Miles' girlfriend, Claudia, is with the kids. Check that, Miles' _**ex**_-girlfriend, Claudia, is with the kids. They love her, she's great with them, so screw Miles and his hang ups. Claudia even brought belated Christmas presents – a pink plastic ukulele for Rachel, a toy drum for Jimmy, and those are clearly gifts from someone who can go home and escape the noise.

They dressed up for their date, and Juliet looks fucking fantastic, and maybe they can stretch their after-dinner drink just a liiiiiiiitle bit longer. Is it too much to hope that the kids will be in bed when they get home? They're sipping their drinks, and she looks happier than he's seen her since, well, since November, probably, and he brushes the hair off her shoulders with the back of his hand, whispers in her ear till he sees the goosebumps rise.

They only stretch the drink out so far, though. It's just after 8, and he's sure the kids will still be up. That's OK, too, he loves the way they smell after bath, tucked into bed, soap and worn PJs and lotion and the crayon and marker or glue or whatever art project residue Rachel's always got stuck under her tiny nails.

They dash into the house. Fucking freezing Michigan winters. They've already started dreaming about where they'll move once they get that first million.

They're not even through the front door, and they hear Claudia, "OK, shhhh. Ready now, wait . . . wait. . ." They hear Jimmy bang away on the drum, Rachel whine, "Not yet, Jimmy. Not yet."

James looks over at Juliet and grins. OK, maybe he's glad they aren't in bed yet. They walk into the family room. The kids are clean and in their jammies, and Claudia says, "Hit it!"

Rachel starts up the ukulele, a vaguely familiar tune. The uke's got a crank, and she's just strumming along to whatever music it's cranking out. It's hard to tell over Jimmy's banging, and this is fucking cute now, but probably not gonna be at 7 tomorrow morning. Now Rachel starts singing along, in a twang, "Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darlin' Clementine. You are lost and gone forever. . ."

"Unghhhhh," James actually makes that sound. Like he's been punched. Rachel keeps on crooning, Jimmy making a racket on that goddamn drum. James' head pounding pounding pounding and he's sweating and sick and unsteady on his feet. He missed the look of sheer panic Juliet gave him before she went right over to Rachel, gave her a big hug, and smoothly relieved her of the ukulele. "That's great sweetheart, good job!"

Juliet's paying Claudia, asking her about the evening, escorting her to the door. She's got Jimmy on her hip, Rachel by the hand, instructing them to say "night night to Daddy," taking them to their bedrooms. He's still just standing, shaking and sick.

He walks to the couch, his knees buckle and he falls onto it. He sits with his head in his hands and he just cries. He cries for all the things he never cried for the first time around. The daughter he's never going to know. His parents' death 36 years ago. The fact that he didn't do anything about it six years ago. His grandmother who is going to die in less than a month. The baby they lost back in November. His first night in foster care, February 14, 1982, the day his son turns two. This coming Christmas – the one he spends locked up in juvvie.

He can't fight the silent tears, as much as he wipes his face, clears his throat, grits his teeth, the tears keep coming and coming and coming.

He feels he's being watched, looks up to see Juliet on the other side of the room, holding two beer bottles between her fingers, at her hip. She looks unsure, hesitant to approach him. He realizes he doesn't know if he wants her to stay all the way over there and leave him alone in his sad, embarrassing state or if he wants her to come over here and tell him it's gonna be all right.

"Well, it's official, you're married to a goddamn sissy," he says, finally.

"Not really," she says.

"A fuckin' pink flowered plastic ukulele brought me to tears. You don't think that makes me a sissy?"

"No, you're a sissy, all right. I meant we're not really married."

He laughs, inclines his head as an invitation for her to join him. All hesitation clears from her face, and she comes to sit right next to him, settling in, shoulder to hip. She hands him a beer.

"Why the fuck couldn't it have played 'Oh, Susannah'?"

"I'm not quite convinced the universe wants to make things easy on us," she says., and rests her head on his shoulder

"Yeah, huh?" They sit in silence for a while, sipping beer. "I tell ya what," he finally says, "that's it for the damn ukulele. I'll tell her I broke it if I have to. Get her a new one, whatever it takes." Juliet just keeps drinking, so he keeps blabbing. "Course, maybe I can tell her the real reason I don't like it - you got a sister, babydoll, and you can meet her right after you graduate college."

Juliet says, "If the truth makes her cease and desist with her demands for a sister, I'm totally cool with it. Because that ship? Has sailed." She waggles her right hand in front of her, pantomiming a ship coursing over the waves.

He cuts his eyes to her. She's been saying the roughly the same thing since mid-November. Or words like it. This is the first time, though, that they aren't tinged with sadness, regret, bitterness. That ship _has_ sailed. He takes her hand.

He says, "Except, I guess it's probably best that she's got some concept of time before we tell her the truth."

"Yeah, not till then," Juliet agrees. "Hell, not ever."


	18. Driving Miss Freckles

The kitchen is somehow too bright after the dim light of the den. Jimmy is sprawled back in the barstool with his feet up on another barstool he's kicked out from under the center island counter. His left arm dangles to the floor. He's holding the neck of a half-empty beer bottle by his middle and index fingers. He's just kind of swinging it there, the bottom not quite brushing the floor with every slight swing. Two empty bottles sit on the counter in front of him.

He notices them enter, doesn't stir, except to raise the bottle to his lips and take a swig.

"So, is it true? What Jimmy said? Did you screw her, Dad?" A woman's voice. Jimmy still hasn't moved. Kate notices someone else in the room. Jimmy's sister (and _why_ can't Kate seem to remember her name?). She's leaning against the counter, standing over in the corner next to the refrigerator, with her arms crossed over her chest. She's got on jeans and maybe a vintage concert t-shirt, and Kate bets she might be pretty fun. If Jimmy was someone else, if . . . Rachel (right?) was someone else, Kate may have hit it off just great with her new guy's sister. If if if if if. _If wishes were horses, beggars would ride._ Sam used to say that to her.

"I called Rachel," Jimmy says by way of explanation. And, yes, it is Rachel.

Sawyer answers his daughter. "We're gonna explain it all."

"That doesn't sound like a 'no,'" she challenges.

"It's complicated, sweetie," Juliet offers.

"I . . . it . . . it . . ," Rachel is sputtering, seething, angrily gesturing, fingers up, palms in, and Kate almost has to stifle a laugh. _This_ is the Sawyer she remembers. Rachel throws her arms wide, strangles out a sound, "Gahrgh!" Then, "I can't believe you're standing up for him! It is _NOT_ complicated, Mom. Jesus! Either he screwed around on you or he didn't!"

"Don't talk to your . . ." Sawyer starts, but Rachel turns her wrath on him now.

"And _you_, don't even get me started. My whole life always telling me to stand up for myself, not let boys put one over on me. Telling Jimmy he better act like a gentleman . . . What a crock of horseshit, Dad. Screwing around on Mom – with Jimmy's _girlfriend_!"

Jimmy snarks, "I think 'girlfriend' is probably going a little too far, Rach."

He's right. No way in a million years would she describe herself as his girlfriend, but it still hurts just a little to hear him say it.

"Rachel, listen to me," Juliet says, stepping to the middle of the kitchen, up next to Jimmy at the island, still halfway across the room from Rachel. "This is all very complicated. You just need to calm down and give us a chance." She's speaking calmly, even though Kate knows she's as off balance as any of them. Rachel stares at her mother, challenging, and they stare at each other like that for what seems to be a really long time, but is probably no more than two seconds, tops. Finally, Rachel blinks rapidly a few times, crosses her arms again, uncrosses them, shoves her hands in her jeans pockets. Her expression clearly reads disbelief.

Juliet reaches out to put a hand on Jimmy's head, but he kind of ducks away. She looks at him closely. "What happened to your face, Jimmy?" she asks, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek. He jerks away again. "Hockey. Don't try to change the subject, Mom."

Sawyer steps fully into the kitchen now, approaches his_ wife_ and _son _(so fucking weird). Kate's left at the kitchen entrance, all alone, staring at this little family tableau. She feels acutely out of place and all alone. It's not her place to go and stand in there with them, but what's she supposed to do? Just stand here?

"I think I should go," she says in a small voice. Jimmy turns to look at her. Well, they all do, but Jimmy's the one she notices. He sets his beer on the island, slides his legs off the barstool, clops his feet on the kitchen floor, stands and gathers his keys.

"Not on your life, mister," Juliet says is a quiet but firm voice, shoving his beer bottle back at his chest. He plops back onto the barstool.

"I can call a cab," Kate murmurs._ Just get me out of here._

"You want to take her, James?" Juliet asks Sawyer.

This gets Rachel going again. "Real smart, Mom. Send him off for a little alone time with _her_. Don't you have any pride? God. I feel like I don't even know who you are."

Kate catches another one of those silent conversations between Sawyer and Juliet, but she thinks she can decipher this one. Juliet raising an eyebrow, smirking just a tiny bit ("she doesn't even know who we are"), Sawyer closing his eyes, barely shaking his head ("she's got no idea").

Now they have an actual conversation - with words. "You sure?" he asks.

"Yeah, go ahead. These two can cool their heels for a little bit."

Sawyer lifts a key ring from a hook next to the door. Rachel starts sputtering and cursing under her breath again. Kate can't stop the smile. It's almost nice to see this reminder of the man she once knew and loved (?). Or at least liked a whole hell of a lot.

Juliet says, "Just cool it, Rachel. Get a grip, and when Dad gets back, we'll tell you everything you want to know."

Sawyer reaches out to Juliet, and she leans in to him. He kisses her forehead, leaves his lips there just a bit longer than strictly necessary. Kate looks away. She hears Rachel huff, watches Jimmy drain the third beer bottle, and set it next to the other two empties. He looks at her now, challenging her to say something.

She approaches him. He deserves some kind of acknowledgment. She unzips the hoodie she's still wearing, takes it off, hands it to him. Oops. They're all staring at her now, and this is sooooo awkward. She's dressed for a_ date,_ OK? A Third Date. Not some Jerry Springer _Back to the Future _Family Drama Mashup. She rubs her hands up and down her arms.

"Keep the jacket," Jimmy says waving off the sweatshirt.

She takes it. "Jimmy, I . . ." she starts, but they're all staring at her still, and what is she supposed to say? _Sorry I screwed your dad?_ Because she totally isn't. Sex with him was really, really fucking amazing, and, God, he's Jimmy's DAD. Weird. He's Juliet's HUSBAND. There's not a word to describe how weird that is, and, Jesus, has she spent thirty plus years having sex with him? Does. Not. Compute. Maybe only the twice. . . that's the easiest way to think of it.

"Don't, Kate," Jimmy says. "Just. . . don't."

Don't what? She wants to ask, but he's not even making eye contact anymore.

Rachel approaches now. "I'll let you know if I ever have a son. You can fuck him, too."

_I didn't fuck your brother_ seems horribly, skeezily inappropriate. Kate just gulps.

"_That's enough_, Rachel!" Juliet commands. "James," she prods Sawyer.

"Yeah, let's go, Freckles," Sawyer says, jangling his keys.

"I'm so, so sorry," Kate practically whispers to Jimmy, to Rachel too, she supposes. "I didn't know he was your dad," and, OH GOD, that's just made it worse. Worse! Worse! Did she just admit she slept with him, and why didn't she just wait for them to explain it all?

"Yeah," Rachel pretends to soften. "I can see how it would be tough to make the astounding leap of logic that Jimmy LaFleur is Jim LaFleur's son."

Oh yeah. _This _is why she didn't wait. The "kids," (or the two people who are pretty much Kate's age) think the big reveal is that she slept with their dad, but from Kate's perspective (and she guesses from Sawyer and Juliet's as well), that's just a teensy tiny speck so far back in the rearview mirror that it might require nothing more than a passing mention. The truth, the real truth, what it is they have to explain to their children . . . Fucking Christ, they don't even know their parents' _real names_. And does she really need to be here for that?

She walks to the door, Sawyer escorts her out with a hand at her lower back. She hears him mumble to Juliet, "Any chance I can stretch this ride out long enough that I come back and you've got the whole thing told?" Juliet just gives him a kind of side-eye smirk thing. Kate almost laughs again. _There's the woman she used to know_.

"Bye, Kate," she says. Kate just nods.

Kate and Sawyer enter the garage, and as soon as the door shuts behind them, they can hear a ruckus in the kitchen. _Mom, what the hell?_ And _What in the world is going on?_ And _Is this some kind of joke?_ Sawyer is still and quiet beside her, just listening. Through the door, they can hear Juliet say, "I'm going upstairs. Make yourselves comfortable. When your father gets back, we'll have a nice, long chat."

Sawyer exhales. He steps over to open the door for Kate.

"Nice car," she compliments him. It's a black Mustang, old school.

"1968 Mustang – runs like new," he brags.

"Did you restore this yourself?" she smoothes a hand over the shiny hood.

"_**I**_ didn't, no," he answers somewhat cryptically.

He helps her in, punches the garage door opener on his way to the driver's side.

"Sonofabitch," he grumbles. Some things never change.

She twists in her seat. They're blocked in. Jimmy's car right behind them in the driveway, a Jeep Grand Cherokee behind Jimmy's car. "All right, get out." He helps her out, escorts her to the other car in the garage, a late-model Lexus. "We'll take Jules' car."

Kate sits. "Just toss that all in the back," Sawyer says, indicating a Nalgene water bottle, women's running shoes, ankle weights. He settles into the driver's seat, turns on the car, begins backing out. "She's on some kinda exercise kick, worried about cholesterol and all that shit."

"They have pills for that, you know," Kate offers._ You guys could star in the commercials._ She actually giggles. "Sorry," she apologies.

He stops in the driveway, before backing onto the street. Looks at her full on. He laughs, too. "Go ahead and laugh," he says. "We're old, I get it. It's pretty funny when ya stop to think about it."

"Is it weird?" she asks, seriously.

"What, bein' old?"

She nods.

"Well, it ain't like I just woke up one day like this," he answers. "It took decades to get this way."

She shakes her head. Thirty four years. Jesus. He backs out of the driveway then. "What about living in the past. Does that ever get weird?"

"For the most part, it ain't livin' in the past," he answers. "Mostly just goin' on about life. Kids keep ya busy, you know how it is. Till it ain't livin in the past, just livin'. Every so often, though, somethin' comes up and bites ya in the ass. Makes you remember all over again how weird it is. Tonight's a doozy."

"I am _so_ sorry," she says. "I had _no_ idea. I swear." She blows out a raspberry. "And, God," she continues, "I really liked him. Dammit, Sawyer, do you have to sabotage every relationship I have?" She's joking – mostly.

He flinches when she calls him Sawyer, recovers, chuckles, asks, "He treat you OK?"

"Jimmy? Yeah. Yeah, he's really great, James."

"Thanks," he says. "That's . . . that's _always_ been important to me – that he's a gentleman."

Kate thinks wistfully of the doors Jimmy's opened, the times he's stood in her presence, held out chairs, called when he said he would. She thinks of Sawyer, tied to a tree, using Shannon's inhalers as an excuse to get a kiss. . . She can't reconcile it, probably never will. So, she teases him instead. "Well, against all odds it seems that you've managed to raise two upstanding citizens, contributing members of society."

"Rachel – you gotta forgive her. She's got a bit of a temper. Plus, takes things a little too personal sometimes."

Kate laughs. "Wonder where she gets it from?" Then, earnestly, and she hopes he understands she's serious. "They seem really great. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Kate." He seems serious in return. "I'm proud of 'em. They grew up to be good people. That's all I ever wanted. Well, wanted to make sure they grew up the right way. Give 'em things I never had."

"You did this by gaming the stock market?" she teases.

"I don't mean the money, Kate," he says, not teasing. "I mean, I ain't gonna lie – the money's nice. But it ain't about the money. It's about havin' a home, people who love you, stability. You understand that, right?"

She nods, has to blink back tears. _Of course _she understands. It's what she pretended she had with Jack, with Aaron. Somehow this conversation hits too close to the bone, and she tries to change the subject. "You ever think about having more kids?"

"Yeah . . ." he leads. She waits in the quiet, wondering if there's more to that. "Just didn't work out," he eventually finishes.

They ride in silence of a bit, broken every now and again when she guides him left, right, "get off at this exit," towards home.

"Thank you, Kate," he says after a bit.

"You already said that," she replies.

"No. Not about the kids. For . . . for all you meant to me. I was a huge ass, I realize that. It was kinda the point, actually. Kept people away. But you . . . you treated me like a person, and I . . . Jesus! I been thinkin' this for more'n thirty years, and I still can't say it right. Basically, you always meant a lot to me. Thanks."

"Left at the light," she says in response. Then, "So why did you jump?" He looks at her, confused. "From the helicopter," she clarifies. "Why'd you jump? If I meant so much to you?"

He shakes his head. "You and me would've never worked out, Kate. Besides, shit, I thought I'd make it back, catch the next boat out to the freighter. Look like some big damn hero. Didn't expect to get shot back in time."

"Sorry about that," she says.

"No need to apologize. It all worked out for the best."

Geez. How did it, though? That's what she wants to ask. Like, how did they survive? And for how long? And why did they leave? And most of all . . . how the_ hell _did he make it work with Juliet? It has to be some kind of convenience thing, right? _Wrong_, she thinks. She can tell that just from the time she's spent with Jimmy. But how? How? So many questions, and all she says is "Third driveway on the right."

He turns in.

"Oh crap," she says. "Crap, crap."

"What?" he asks, parking behind a blue Camry.

"They're here . . .oh, . . .oh shit. Oh shit, he met them . . ."

"Care to fill me in?"

She rubs her temples with her right hand. She feels like she should just lie, but she's kind of had it with that. "Cassidy. Cassidy's babysitting for me tonight. They're here – Cassidy and Clementine."

"Unghhhhh," James actually makes that sound. Like he's been punched. Kate looks over at him, and good God, he's an OLD MAN. At his home, he looked like a sophisticated, attractive older gentleman. In the dark of their car ride, teasing, talking, laughing, the picture in her mind was the young Sawyer. Now, in the harsh light cast by her garage floodlights, he looks _old_.

"Do you want to go in?" she risks.

He's still not saying anything. He lowers his face into his left hand. He starts rubbing his forehead. She notices his ring again. He looks up, his left hand covering his mouth and chin. "No," he says.

"No . . . what?"

"No, I don't want to go in," he answers. She'd forgotten the question.

"You taking care of 'em, like I asked?"

"Of course I am."

"What's she like?" he aks.

"Clementine?"

"Yeah, Clementine."

Kate chuckles a bit. Answers, "Oh, she's beautiful. Looks just like you when she smiles. She's growing up fast. Already has a little attitude."

He makes that strangled, gurgling sound in his throat again.

"They moved to LA about a year and a half ago. Cass got some job. Clem's real smart, James. She even got this great scholarship to some fancy dancy private school."

"Yeah," he says, and it's not a question.

Kate peers over at him. "You had something to do with that?"

"We did, yeah."

"You sure you don't want to come in?"

"And say what, exactly, Kate? Sorry I took all your money? Sorry I never wanted anything to do with our kid? I liked her, Kate. You gotta believe that. She was more than just a con."

Kate nods in sympathy.

"More than just a con," he continues, "but a con just the same. Fuuuuuuuuck," he breathes out. "You know, there was a time when I thought we might be able to come back. I'd grown up enough, I thought I'd try to make it up to her."

"Why not now?"

"Because too much time's passed."

"For you, maybe."

"Look, Kate, Clem's never gonna need money for nothin'. She won't ever know where it's comin' from, but she's gonna be taken care of, don't worry 'bout that. This is my penance, though. If she thinks her dad's a bastard, then so be it."

"James, I . . ."

"It's OK, Freckles. Look, I gotta get back. My family's waitin' on me. Be gone too long, and who knows, my hot-tempered daughter may burn the house down. It's been known to happen, you know."

"Touché," she says.

He smiles and winks at her. And just like that, the old man is gone. Not replaced by the Sawyer she remembers, not the guy who oozed sex and fun and danger. No, the old man is replaced by the active, jaunty, handsome cholesterol drug ad older guy.

"All right, well . . ." she leads. How's she supposed to say goodbye again? "Tell Juliet . . ." tell her what? What has she ever wanted to say to Juliet? "Tell her I think she's got a lovely family." It sounds kind uber-polite. It sounds like the sort of thing Jimmy would say, and that fact alone kind of makes it true.

"Bye, Sawyer," she says, leaning over for a hug. He opens his arms for her, and she folds into him. He feels strong and safe and she's not sure the ache in her heart is for him or for a loving father, or for Jimmy, or for Jack. She's starting to cry, and this isn't how she wants to leave him. She feels him start to pull away, but she holds on just a little bit longer.

She lets him break away finally. He says, "I feel like now's the part where I'm supposed to jump out the door, crash into the ocean."

"Go for a swim?" she asks. "Wash up on shore?"

She sees his eyes cloud over with some distant memory. "Yeah, yeah, wash up on shore," he says, smiling now. "I need to get home. You take care of yourself now, Kate."

She gets out of the car, slams the door. He waves at her through the windshield, then starts the ignition. He's got his right hand on the headrest of the passenger seat, his head twisted around backwards, and he backs up, and out of the driveway.

She misses him. Who? Sam? Sawyer? Jack? Jimmy? Yes, yes, yes, yes.


	19. What Happened, Pt 3

Dr. DeGroot escorts them all off the bus and hustles them into a lecture hall of some sort. Juliet's got her head on a swivel. She's off the Island! This is the United Freaking States of America! Everyone takes their seats. Dr. DeGroot, sweaty and nervous, walks to the front of the room.

"There's been, erm . . . an incident, and we've lost communication with the island."

The evacuated Dharmites hubbahubbahubbahubba all around, filled with worry, dread, fear for the ones they left behind – husbands, fathers, brothers, friends. Juliet, kicked back in the rear of the lecture hall, crosses her arms over her chest and feels slightly guilty for her superiority complex. _Just an incident, folks, nothing to worry about – it's that purge coming in about 15 years you need to look out for._

It's summer, so the university allows Dharma the use of a dormitory. Her first night in six years in the "real world," and Juliet's sharing a dorm suite with five other evacuated Dharma ladies. She and her former roommate Eleanor take a bunk bed, Juliet on top, and this is so very weird.

They are to check in with the D.I. at 10 every morning. They get money for food, entertainment.

The first two weeks are a blast. For Juliet, at least. America in 1977. It's like living in a theme park – Seventiesland - and everyone wears Seventies clothes and drives Seventies cars and goes to Seventies movies and watches Seventies TV, and it's just so weird and cool and fun and exciting. Yes, she's spent three years in the Seventies, she's well aware of that. It's just, on the island, everything is different. It's . . . it's THE ISLAND. This isn't. This is just 1977 America.

She misses James. She's not worried and freaked out like everyone else is, but she's having such a good time. She wants someone to share it with. No one else here GETS IT. It's 1977, folks, isn't that bizarre? But of course, it's not in the least bit bizarre to any of them.

Two weeks in, and at their 10 AM muster, Dr. DeGroot gets up to speak. Two weeks and no communication with the island. Anyone who wants to stay can, but they're going to have to start contributing to the D.I. Anyone else is free to leave and go home, go back to their families. Surprisingly about half the attendees take him up on his offer. The Dharma Initiative was a sowing of wild oats, a great adventure, an escape. They have no one on the island, and so they head home.

Juliet watches with interest, shrugs her shoulders, and gets in the line for those staying on, all the while imagining taking Dr. DeGroot up on his offer, getting on a bus to Miami and showing up at her parents' front door. She reaches the front of the line, expecting another aptitude test, or some questions about her interests, or a peek into her mainland Dharma file. Instead, some Ann Arbor lackey asks, "Can you type?"

"Yeah, sure?" she says, tentatively.

"Great. Here." He hands over five thick accordion style file folders. "We'll get you set up with a typewriter. These are handwritten notes we've collected over the years. You can start typing them up."

Typist for the Dharma Initiative. Her dream job. She put herself through nearly 20 years of school for _this_? When her eighth grade typing class would have sufficed? _The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, yeah yeah yeah. _

She gets a cubicle, sets down the files. It's her first of many days cozying up to her brand-spanking new IBM Selectric. Juliet thinks that maybe somewhere, in all these notes, she'll learn something. Something important. Something helpful. And when communication with the island gets all fixed up, she'll hop on the next sub back (and is she really considering going back? Yes.) with all her important info. She'll be the conquering hero, come to get her friends back to the right time.

As it turns out, the notes she is assigned to type are mind-numbingly boring. Those damn dolphins in the aquarium. At first, she thinks this will be interesting. She always _had _sort of wondered what that was all about. But well, _Subject #8, 4/24/73, clicking frequency 1.02 kHz_, she types and, _Subject #4, 3/23/74, clicking frequency 0.78 kHz_, and . . . holy hell, she thinks, flipping through several more pages of this. They've got to be kidding, right? Motor pool to typing pool, movin' on up!

Another week in, and UM wants its dorms back. Dharma sets everybody up with "groovy new digs," according to Eleanor. Juliet gets an efficiency apartment in walking distance from "work." The apartment's furnished, pullout couch, little two-eyed stove, undersized fridge, big boxy tv with antenna.

Day 24 back in the real world . . . and she doesn't even have to start counting again or keeping track. There's a big sign hanging in their little cubicle farm: **LAST CONTACT WITH ISLAND:** then someone (she suspects one of the DeGroots) writes the new number every day. Juliet hates that damn sign.

Day 24 and there's a new folder on her desk. Finish one, and another one magically appears. Always more crap to type. She's on her 10th folder already, not a bad typist once she got the hang of correction tape (_Dear God, I will never complain about Microsoft Word ever again. Amen, Juliet_). She used to get a little frisson of excitement at each new folder (maybe _this_ is the one full of interesting tidbits and important time-traveling information). That's now been replaced with a simple hope that maybe this one, please, please, will be _slightly _interesting. The new folder has an Orchid stamp. Now she's excited again. The Orchid. That's important. She feels the excitement build again. She pulls out the papers.

_5/12/75. Ambient air temperature. 82 deg F (28 C). Rel humidity 75%. Bulbs planted: Purple Dendrobium_  
_5/18/75. Ambient air temperature. 82 deg F (28 C). Rel humidity 82%. Bulbs planted: _Cypripedium acaule

She feels like she's going to cry. Tears actually form in her eyes. Over stupid, boring, _meaningless,_ fucking Orchid notes. What a crybaby. And what's that all about? Frustration at her stupid boring job that's what. What the hell is the Dharma Initiative all about? Dolphin clicking frequency and greenhouse temperatures and all this other meaningless, trivial, insane, useless crap.

Screw it. She's taking a nap. As it turns out, mindless, soul-sucking, boring typing is exhausting. Just sitting sitting sitting on her ass all day, peck peck peck typing is really, really tiring. Surprisingly, way more tiring than fixing cars. Plus, the Selectric is warm and hums and kind of induces sleep anyway.

So go her days. She shows up, sits down, skims through any new material, puts her elbow up on her desk, puts her forehead in the palm of her right hand and takes a morning nap. Wakes up, types, goes to lunch, takes an afternoon nap, wakes up, types, goes home . . . and watches tv and reads and sleeps sleeps sleeps. And studiously, intensely thinks of absolutely nothing. Thinking too hard about too much does her no good.

Day 30 off the Island (she mentally flips that goddamn sign the bird every time she walks in). She's still trucking through the Orchid folder. How long is she going to keep at this? She's been waiting six years. SIX YEARS. She's finally off the island, and yet, here she is. What's she waiting here for? For him? Yes. Yes, for him, of course for him. _Stop thinking about him._ This 1970s adventure is sad and awful if she thinks about him too much, but fun and weird if she doesn't. He's fine. He's fine._ Don't think too much._

The other reason she's still here? What else is she going to do? At least here she has a job. And while she's not worried about him, not in the way a lot of the other people are (Lara Chang is a basket case), she is starting to wonder. What if it takes another SIX YEARS to reestablish communication with the island? Is she really going to stick around that long? _Don't think too much. _She takes a nap.

She wakes up. Starts typing.

_3/22/76. Ambient air temperature. 82 deg F (28 C). Rel humidity 78.2%. Bulbs planted: _Oeceoclades

Couldn't she probably figure out something to do? Couldn't she leave now and figure out some way to survive? It's just her, and it's not like she's got a whole lot of needs. She could figure it out. She could. Which means she's just waiting here for him, doesn't it? And isn't she supposed to be through with waiting around for white knights to rescue her? Isn't that sort of the point with James? They were (are, are, are) together because they _want_ to be together, not because they _need_ to be together. But maybe she's starting to question the want vs. need thing, and well, they aren't together at all right now are they?_ Stop it. Stop it. Don't think too much._

She will start taking classes in the spring semester. She'll take night classes. Subject matter? Not botany. She'll stay here until 1980. New decade. That's two and a half years from now. She can't wait around forever. _Don't think too much._

The weekend comes, and she goes to the mall with Eleanor. If she had known she was going to be here so long, she would've packed more than the two t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and red top. And let's face it, it's kind of down to the red top these days. It just fits better. Sitting on your ass eight hours a day. Blah. She should take up running or something.

The novelty of Seventiesland is beginning to wear off, but the mall is kind of weird and cool. The department store seems like a huge, fancy vintage clothing store with all its insane 70s fashions. And wacked-out 70s sizing. She tosses the new jeans over the changing stall door, sending Eleanor out for one size up. She pays for her new clothes with a big wad of cash – weird. Eleanor's got a card. Also weird: the clerk takes it, sticks it on a plate, and then slides the machine from left to right to make an impression on the carbon copy of the transaction slip. Juliet almost laughs. And thinks she'll probably need to get a credit card and bank account if she's going to stick around much longer. But she won't. She'll go back to the Island first chance._ Right?_ This isn't _where_ she is supposed to be. Or _when_. _Don't think too much._

Day 39 off the Island. Worse day yet. BY FAR. Juliet doesn't even look at the folders on her desk. She doesn't even take off her sunglasses. She just turns on the Selectric, for its soothing warmth and white noise, puts her head in her hands and attempts to sleep off her hangover. Her totally unfair, excessive hangover.

Yesterday was the big Labor Day picnic, and Dharma people take their partying as seriously on the mainland as they did back on the island. The best part was real beer. None of that "Dharma shit," as James called (_calls_ – he's present tense, dammit) it. Well, it's just Budweiser, but it's not bad after three years of Dharma brew. Not bad at all. The first was so very good, that she eagerly accepted the second. About halfway through that, she got called over for a game of Frisbee golf. She returned half an hour later to a flat, warm Budweiser. The first sip actually made her a little sick. Nasty. And because _everyone_ was enjoying their non-Dharma beers, it was, sadly all gone.

And _**she's**_ the one paying for it today? Not. Fair. Not in the least. She's actually kind of ticked that Eleanor roped her into that stupid Frisbee golf. If she was going to feel like hammered dog shit, she at least should have finished that second beer.

She can't even quite sleep this morning. Eleanor walks by her cubicle and waves. Juliet just stares over the top rims of her sunglasses. Eleanor stops. "Want a bear claw?" she waves a foul-looking slimy, sticky pastry.

"God, no. No." Juliet opens a folder. Sonic fence repair notes.

_10/2/73 Pylon #4, short circuit. Rewired. Re-connected to the grid: 0945._

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm goes the Selectric, radiating heat. Juliet puts her head back in her hands to sleep.

She wakes to a hubbub. She takes a minute to regain her bearings. Maybe she feels a _little_ better. Maybe. Eleanor comes by again with news: They regained a connection with the Island! Juliet's heart leaps. Eleanor elaborates: But only for a minute and a half, and only with Stewart Radzinsky. And the connection was spotty, scratchy. There was some kind of fight at the Swan site. They think Stewart may have said something about people killed. He definitely said something about a bright, white flash.

Juliet feels sick. Sicker than she has all morning. Like she actually may vomit. Oh, sweet Jesus, why hadn't she thought of this? (because she has been studiously not thinking of anything). A white flash? A time flash? Oh, Jesus, what if he's gone back to the future? Then she'll never see him again. And how unfair is that? _She_ wants to go back to the future, dammit. _She_ has something to go back for. She feels jealous and angry and cheated. Tears burn at her eyes and she blinks them away. _Get a grip crybaby._

Then she remembers Eleanor said that Stewart said (stupid game of Dharma Telephone) that people were killed. If something was going down at the Swan site, wouldn't James have been there? _Oh, God, no. Please, let him be OK, and I'm sorry I was jealous he may have gone back to the future. Please, please let him be all right._

She remembers James was going out to see Richard that morning. So maybe he wasn't there. But then if he got flashed to the future? Or not. Those flashes weren't particularly reliable. She suddenly can't bear the thought of never seeing him again. Yeah, yeah, she was going to leave here in 1980 if it came to that, but that was more than two years away! She realizes she didn't say goodbye. That she just dashed off some stupid note. That she hopes he knows how much she loves him. _Don't think too much._

Late that afternoon, Lara and baby Miles stop by her cubicle.

"We're leaving, Juliet, and I wanted to say goodbye. I have family in San Francisco. I guess Pierre can find us there if he wants."

Juliet's heart lurches. She wants to say, "No, you can't go," but they _are_ going, and she can't stop it. What happened, happened. And what Miles remembers is never knowing his dad. They always left. She considers Lara a friend, and it's hard to say goodbye, but losing baby Miles is so much harder. Lara spies someone across the room. "Can you hold Miles for a second? I need to go say bye to Alicia."

"Of course," Juliet says, holding out her arms for Miles. She holds him up in her lap, facing him, her hands lodged in his armpits. His mouth drops open and his wispy little beginnings of eyebrows shoot up. She's not sure if she should laugh or cry over this look she's so familiar with in the adult version. "Listen, buddy, I _guarantee _you'll see me again, OK? I'm just not sure if I'll ever see you again. And. . ." her voice cracks. She's going to cry again. Jesus.

"Pffffffffttttttt," Miles says in response, and she laughs through her tears.

"Well, OK, then!" She holds him close, kisses his sweet-smelling baby forehead (_don't cry_). "Bye, Miles. You'll see me again in about 27 years. Be good," she whispers.

Lara approaches, hugs her, and leaves the Dharma Initiative. They exit right under the sign. LAST CONTACT WITH ISLAND: 39 DAYS. "Pffffffffffffffffttttttt," Juliet says to the sign, to the Selectric, to her life in general.

Home that night, she can't stop crying. She is NOT thinking too much. She's not. But Miles just left today. And Pierre is never finding them. Miles will never ever know his dad. And Juliet is all alone in Ann Arbor, Michigan in 1977. She has no family in San Francisco. She cannot go home. She has NO ONE. NO ONE. And James is where now? On the Island? Yes? Alive? She hopes. What year? The past? The future? She never got to say goodbye. And she has nothing to remember him by. No picture, no love letters, no ticket stubs saved from wonderful dates. NOTHING. She has NO ONE and NOTHING and she lives in a tiny efficiency apartment and types for the Dharma Initiative. What a joke.

And she can't stop crying, and it makes her so damn angry. Now who's the basket case? She gives in to the tears. When she's had a nice long crying jag, she goes for the ice cream in the freezer. Because who the fuck cares that in 70s sizes she's an 8, and she just sits around on her ass all day and she gives herself a year, tops, to be just sitting at the damn Selectric wearing a muumuu.

Ice cream ingested, she's now staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. She wipes her eyes. No. No. She will go back to school. She will do _something_. She nods to her reflection. _Don't let 'em get you down._ _Don't think too much._

Day 40 off the Island. This starts better than day 39. No longer unfairly hungover. Bravo. She slides into her seat at her desk. There's a new folder. From the school, and it's a year's worth of grades and tests and homework assignments from the third graders. Really? Really? It's important this all be typed up . .. because? If she mis-types something, will it screw with someone's permanent record? She pulls out the first few pages.

_Lesson plan. Fall Semester 1973. Third Grade. Multiplication:_

_2 x 2 = 4  
2 x 3 = 6  
2 x 4 = 8  
2 x 5 = 10_

She puts the paper down. Lifts an eyebrow at the room and all the busy little members of the Dharma Diaspora doing whatever it is they've got everyone else doing. She's really expected to type up the multiplication tables? Seriously?

You know what? On second thought, she really doesn't feel all that much better today. She puts her head in her hands to sleep, or to daydream, or to just zone out. Multiplication tables aren't going anywhere.

It's funny sometimes how she actually misses the island. She _always_ misses James. Most of the time she misses Jin and Miles. But there are some times when she actually misses the island itself. The warm, clean air, beautiful vistas, soothing nature sounds. Six years trapped there, so maybe this is just Stockholm Syndrome, but the last three years really weren't that bad. She's sitting at her desk in her cubicle and she's dreaming (or daydreaming? She's somewhere not quite asleep, not quite awake). She dreams (remembers?) a fresh breeze wafting in their bedroom on a Saturday morning. She dreams bouncing around rutted roads in a van, listening to the Allman Brothers on the 8-track player. She dreams of warm nights sitting on the porch in tank top and shorts.

She remembers James' smile when she came out to put gas in his van. _Don't think too much. _Maybe she really is dreaming, because she ignores that and keeps on this train of thought. Sitting with him on the hood of the van, a beautiful day, warm, but not too muggy. He kissed her, pulled her down to him, slid her tank top straps off her shoulders, then her bra straps, and the last time she let herself remember this, right about here was when she'd been so inconveniently interrupted to evacuate . . .

* * *

She wonders exactly how he's bracing himself against the Jeep. His arm and leg muscles so taut, straining and hard and _my, my, my,_ she thinks.

They have, of late, settled into this very, very nice comfort zone. Maybe too comfortable.

She closes her eyes against the sun's glare. His head is between her breasts. One hand steadying her right hip, the other tugging down her underwear. And is he _growling?_ _Oh, my, my, my._ YES. Yes, they _have _been too comfortable. Too "Ozzie and Harriet" in their cozy little house and comfy big bed.

He stops. _No, no, no, no. Don't stop._ She reaches her arms out to pull him back, and he strains against her. She opens her eyes to see him undoing the fly of his jeans. _Oh, OK, then_.

"Patience, sweetheart," he says through a lopsided grin.

He pulls her down to him again, and the Jeep rocks a bit. Her first thought is that the shocks could use some work. She grimaces at her stupid brain getting in the way.

He kisses her mouth, and any thoughts of Jeep maintenance fly right out. She kisses back as he grabs both hips and pulls her toward him, roughly. For just a second (and just in time, too), her brain starts back up. She braces her palms against his chest, pushes him away just a bit. "Wait, wait . . wait," she pants at him. She looks at him, his eyes deep with lust (for _her – _and she almost tells herself to _stop thinking so much_). But her brain is winning right now. "I don't. . . I don't. . ." she can't catch her breath, can't put a coherent thought together. "My diaphragm. I don't . . . I wasn't expecting . . ."

The sound he makes isn't quite human. He bends down, rests his forehead, slick with sweat, on her shoulder. He sighs deeply, and she can feel him deflate. Well, not _literally _deflate, and that . . . against her inner thigh . . . isn't helping matters. "My shift ends early tonight," he chokes out.

So, she can sign out early, too, and they can meet up at home and fall into their nice, clean, cozy, comfy bed. No. They are NOT Ozzie and Harriet.

"It'll be OK," she says, reaching between her legs to find him, hold him, pull him closer. It had been OK before . . . well, the one time, and one time is certainly not nearly a large enough sample population from which to draw statistically meaningful conclusions . . . _OHMYGOD, turn your fucking brain off for once why don't you?_

"You sure?" he asks, but it's not like he really wants her to answer, he's halfway inside her now.

"Yeah, yeah, it'll be fine."

* * *

She jerks awake in the Dharma office complex. Her right arm (where her head had been resting) jerks out and slams into the Selectric's space bar.

"space space space space space space space space space space space space space space space space space space space" says the Selectric. All the way to the margin.

"DING!" chimes the Selectric, and out of some kind of typist reflex, she hits the carriage return, and then . . . and then . . .

And then, after two months, the mental space bar running in her head finally hits its margin. Her brain reengages. "DING!" it chimes. Her clothes don't fit (DING!). She's been so tired (DING!). And weepy (DING!). And "hungover" (DING!).

DING! DING! DING! DING!

And there's no carriage return to reset _this_.


	20. Interlude, Jimmy, 1987

_**March 22, 1987, Ann Arbor**_

What was that? That sound? Just tree branches against his window. Probably. But that shadow? What's that? Oh yeah. His space shuttle model. Right? Yeah, yeah. Right.

Daddy always says don't be afraid - there's no such things as ghosts or monsters.

Mama always says don't be afraid - there's no ghosts or monsters _in Ann Arbor._ (But then does that mean that there _are_ ghosts or monsters somewhere else? Where?)

Rachel said just today that her friend Jenny's cousin's neighbor actually saw a ghost. He gave her a ride and didn't even know it was a ghost until he returned her sweater. Then he found out she died in a car crash TEN YEARS AGO. It's really true and happened to Jenny's cousin's neighbor, who _does_ live in Ann Arbor, and maybe Mama and Daddy just don't know about that yet.

Rachel also says only babies call their parents Mama and Daddy, and Jimmy's NOT a baby, so he's working on that.

What's that sound? It's a rustling coming right from his room! What is it? Oh, yeah. That's Rousseau. She comes out of her shell a lot at nighttime.

Jimmy listens harder. He can hear music downstairs and he can hear Mama, Mom, laughing about something. If Mom and Daddy are dancing to music, then that means there aren't any ghosts here now, right? They listen on a record player, which Rachel says is "totally old-fashioned," but Dad says no one is going to listen to tapes in a few years anyway.

Jimmy listens and Dad's laughing now. Oh yeah, this song, it always makes Dad laugh, but who knows why. The lady wants her boyfriend or whatever to think about like why he loves her or something, Jimmy doesn't get it. It's all about thinking, and the part that makes Dad laugh is the lady doesn't have a high IQ or doctor's degree, and if that means she's so dumb, then what's so funny about it, who knows?

The same lady sings this song about being so foolish that she gets herself hung up on chains or something like that. Now_ that_ lady must be even dumber than the low IQ lady. Who would get hung up on chains? Mama says it just means that she fell in love with the wrong guy who's always fooling ladies, and all these dumb ladies are all part of the chain, or something?

Grownup songs don't make a lot of sense, but you don't want to second guess Mom about music lyrics. On the radio one time, the guy said it's a _brand new_ song called "Manic Monday," and even though it was so new, Mom sang along the whole way!

Another noise outside the window. What if Mama and Daddy are too busy or their music is too loud or something? Jimmy walks to his door, clutching his teddy. He can hear them downstairs. They just don't know about Rachel's friend Jenny's cousin's neighbor, and why did Rachel tell him that story and not Mom and Dad? They should probably know about it, but if he goes downstairs to tell, then Dad will yell at him and tell him to go back to bed.

He slips out into the hall. Rachel's got her door open just a crack, and he peers in. She's asleep. She's not so afraid of ghosts or anything. Probably cause she's almost nine and she's braver about that sort of thing. Maybe he should go sleep on her floor. But then when she wakes up she'll call him a baby _and_ a fraidy cat, and he's not a baby, even if he does sometimes say "Mama and Daddy" instead of "Mom and Dad." Not in public, though.

He walks down the hall a little more. Now he knows what. He can just go in Mom and Dad's room, and he can sleep under their bed. He'll be safe there, because no ghosts or monsters or even bad guys will think to look there, and even if they do, well, Mom and Dad will be right there to save him. Plus, they won't ever know he's there, and won't call him a baby anyway like Rachel would.

He sneaks in and slips under the bed. Oops. He forgot that the floors in here are all hardwood now. It's all this stuff Mom and Dad have been doing to "upgrade" (which basically means its nicer) the house, and it's things like they have this whole new fancy bathroom and got the basement "finished" (but that really only means the walls are nice now and the floors aren't cement, and it was kind of finished to start with but that's what they call it – finished) – and they've got a Ping Pong table down there and a really cool, big TV. Anyway, the hardwood floors in Mom and Dad's bedroom are all part of that because Mama thinks it looks pretty and guess she didn't think it wouldn't be comfortable if anyone wanted to sleep under the bed. Still though, it is way safer from ghosts and monsters, and Jimmy falls asleep.

CLONK!

What was that? Jimmy wakes up. Where is he and what was that sound? Oh yeah, under Mama and Daddy's bed. OK. So it's probably not a monster or anything, but what if it was just a plain old bad guy, and not even a super-powered one, but someone in here in their room? Jimmy blinks his eyes, but then he sees Daddy's belt on the floor right next to him. His belt buckle probably made that loud sound. Phew. Mom and Dad are here, so he's totally totally safe.

Plus, Mom and Dad are both laughing a little bit, quiet like, so there's no way there are any bad guys or anything to worry about or they wouldn't be laughing. Daddy sits on the bed, Jimmy can see the back of his jeans and his feet. Then Mom's standing between Dad's legs. Jimmy can see her feet in between, on her tippy toes. She has green nail polish on because she and Rachel painted their toenails green on St. Patrick's Day last week. Dad says something in a low voice that is hard to understand, and maybe it's his mad voice? Now Mom's shirt is on the ground, too, and (hee hee hee) her bra. Ha ha ha. Mom's _bra_.

Jimmy giggles. Then he's really quiet, because they aren't supposed to know he's here, but they're quiet, too, and he sees Mom's arm swoop down and pick up her things.

"James C. LaFleur, is that you?" Definitely definitely Dad's mad voice.

Jimmy crawls out. Mom's got her shirt back on, but you can tell she's embarrassed and holding her bra (hee hee hee – he kind of giggles again) behind her back. Lady parts are kinda funny and there's this one lady – his friend Jason's mom - she wears her shirts like really, really tight and low so you can totally look down her shirt if you ever wanted to. They see Jason's mom at hockey practice and stuff and on the way home Mom almost always says something about "highly inappropriate," and Dad will say "Hey, if you got it, flaunt it." Jimmy doesn't know exactly what that means, but Mom always looks at Dad with the mean look then. Dad will laugh even though it's Mom's mean look, and you should never, ever laugh when she's mad like that, but Dad sometimes laughs anyway.

"What were you doing under there, baby?" Mom asks. Jimmy is NOT a baby. He's NOT. This might be the best time to tell them about Jenny's cousin's neighbor. They've met Jenny before, so they will probably believe it, too. What should he say? And will they think he's a baby?

"Answer your mother, Jimmy," Dad says, and it might be his fake mad voice where he sounds mad but he totally isn't.

If he tells about the ghosts they'll just tell again about how there aren't any ghosts or aren't ghosts here, and he knows Dad won't even give him a chance to tell the whole story about the ghost going to her high school dance or leaving her sweater in the car or anything.

"I just . . . I just . . . I . . . I thought under the bed is the safest place to be," he finally says.

Daddy kinda looks sick and says "Mother of God" in a sore throat kind of voice, and those are probably some of those words Mama doesn't like anybody saying, but maybe she's not mad at Dad because he might have a sore throat or be sick or something.

When you get sick, Mom will ask a lot of questions like "how long have you felt like this?" and "point to where it hurts" and "is it a dull pain or a sharp pain?" and she'll press on your neck and stuff and maybe look with a flashlight down your throat. That's how she decides if you have to go to the doctor. Then when you get to the doctor, they ask all the Exact Same questions just like Mom did except now you're prepared like she helped you study for the test or something. If it's strep throat, they stick a giant q-tip down your throat and then you get to eat ice cream and popsicles and stuff and not go to school.

But Mom's not asking Daddy any of the sore throat questions, even if he looks like he doesn't feel so good, but she's not mad at him for saying bad words. Maybe "Mother of God" is OK.

"I'm taking you back to your room now, Jimmy" is what she says. Dad doesn't say anything like good night or love you or anything like that. He doesn't even say if he's mad that Jimmy wasn't in his own bed.

Jimmy gets back in his bed and Mom says she'll stay with him for a little bit. So, they lie there together and Mom asks what he's so scared of anyway. He tells the whole story about Jenny's cousin's neighbor. Although maybe he thinks now it was her neighbor's cousin, but the point is this is true and happened to someone Jenny knows. Rachel told him so.

Mama listens to the whole thing without interrupting him. Then she's quiet for a little bit. He wonders if she's scared, too, now that she knows there's a ghost here or near or that ghosts are real. "Can I let you in on a little secret, Jimmy?" she asks. He nods. "Big sisters . . . they . . . " Jimmy waits, but she is quiet for a long time now. "Well, you can't always believe everything they tell you. It's kind of like part of their job is to scare their little brothers or little sisters."

Maybe. He'll think about this a little longer. Rachel probably _did _tell him to scare him, but that still doesn't mean it's not true.

"Mama?" he asks after a little while. "Is Daddy mad at me for being under the bed?"

"No," she says. Jimmy guesses she's probably not going to say anything else.

"He seemed kinda upset. Is it bad to hide under the bed?"

She doesn't say anything for a long, long time. Like maybe she's gone to sleep, except when he said that, she reached out to rub his shoulder and she's still kind of squeezing it.

"Enough questions for tonight, Jimmy," she says. "Time to go to sleep."

"Can I get a dog? I wouldn't be so scared if I had a dog."

"We'll talk about it later, Jimmy. Go to sleep, now."

He spends the next few days thinking about everything. Is it true that big sisters are supposed to scare their little brothers? Probably. Rachel's kind of mean like that sometimes. But she stands up for him on the bus and makes sure he gets a seat even when big kids are sitting there.

Maybe some of the things she says are true and other things aren't. That's probably it.

Dad must not really be mad at him, either, for hiding under the bed, because, especially the next morning he is really really nice. Before he's had his coffee, even. But he definitely was mad at him or something when it first happened. Jimmy thinks maybe he could ask Rachel about it, but how will he know if she's telling him the truth if Mom is right and big sisters don't always tell the truth? And he's back where he started.

So on Saturday morning when Mom's going to the airport to pick up Uncle Miles, and Dad's taking a shower since he mowed the lawn this morning, and Jimmy and Rachel are watching The Smurfs together, he finally asks her. Well, he doesn't tell her he hid under the bed because he was scared, but he does tell her he hid under there and how Daddy acted so weird about it.

She says, "Don't you know what grownups do in bed?"

Well, yeah, of course he does. "Mom and Dad read chapter books."

She rolls her eyes and sighs heavily. "Besides that, idiot."

He just stares at her because he really doesn't know what besides that, and he doesn't want her to know that he doesn't know. So, he's not going to say anything.

"Do you want me to tell you?" she offers generously.

"OK."

"Seriously?"

He nods.

She shrugs her shoulders. "OK, then," and she whispers in his ear, telling him the secret. Jimmy wrinkles his nose, jerks his head back like someone's slapped him. GROSS! He hears Mom's voice: _you can't always believe everything they tell you._ NO WAY what Rachel just told him is true.

"All grownups?" he asks.

Rachel nods. "It's how babies get made."

NO WAY. Mom is totally totally right: _you can't always believe everything they tell you. _Then again . . ."Even Mom and Dad?" His lips kind of curl up at even the thought of it.

"Where do you think you and me came from?" she asks.

"I thought Mom just went to the hospital . . ."

She flicks him on the forehead with her right index finger. "You know, for someone who's supposed to be so smart you can be really really dumb sometimes. Look, that's what grownups do in bed and that's where _**all **_babies come from: grownups' beds."

Hmmmmm. _You can't always believe everything they tell you. _He's gone into Mom and Dad's room at night tons and tons of times and they are always reading or sleeping. Not THAT. But then he remembers the other night when Mom took him back to his room, when she opened her bedroom door the button on the doorknob popped out like the door was locked or something and well . . .

They hear Dad come down the steps. Rachel hisses, "If you say one thing, I swear you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Dad pokes his head in the door. Jimmy just kind of stares at him. NO WAY.

"OK, Mia Hamm, got your shin guards?" Dad says to Rachel who waves them around. "Great, let's go. Game starts in 20 minutes. Come on, Jimmy."

"Hey, Dad. Can I ask you a question?" Jimmy asks. Rachel turns really white and she's looking at him with kind of wild eyes. Wow. Maybe she is telling the truth.

"Sure, champ, what's up?"

Jimmy stares at his sister just a little bit, she's shaking her head almost so you can't notice it, and she mouths the words "don't ask." Jimmy smirks at her. _Oh, this is fun, _he thinks.

"What's the question, Jimmy?" Dad prods.

"What's a mea ham?" he asks. Rachel flops back in her seat, relieved.

"What?" Dad asks. Then, "Not a what. A who. Mia Hamm. She's . . . she's . . . well, she's . . . no one, I guess. It don't matter. Come on, we're late."

They head out the door with Dad. They pile into the car. Jimmy's got the gears turning in his brain. He's gonna maybe have to ask Jason about this. He guesses Rachel's probably (maybe) right. But he thinks two things for sure: One, if that's how babies get made, then Mama and Daddy are lucky they only wanted to have two babies, and two, he guesses he is never gonna be a dad himself, because that is just the grossest thing EVER.


	21. Brother of the Bride

**So, the first paragraph of this one is slightly humorous if you go back and read the last paragraph of the last chapter.**

* * *

Jimmy just wanted to get laid tonight, is that too fucking much to ask? And cockblocked by his own damn father of all people? Jesus!

All these curse words he's thinking? The words he'd probably never say out loud (or usually would never even _think_) because his mother would say they were "highly inappropriate"? Well you know what? Who the fuck even knows what his mother considers "highly inappropriate" anymore?

Is it true? What Kate told him? What had seemed so laughable and incomprehensible and categorically untrue? She slept with his dad? Ha. Ha. Ha. Mom knows about it? Yeah, OK, _sure_. Then he brought Kate in here, and Mom and Dad acted like he'd just escorted a ghost into the kitchen (like that ghost story Rachel used to tell in a scratchy old lady voice: "_She's been dead for ten years!_" Duh Duh Dun!).

Jimmy lives in LA. It's not like he's never heard of people with "open marriages." And, you know, whatever, no skin off his nose. Just, Mom and Dad? Not that he cares to think about that sort of thing too much, but it kind of shakes his entire world view to its foundations.

Write 2008 off as the worst romantic year EVER. Geez. Screwing a bridesmaid at Rachel's wedding. That was cliché. Messing around with Tilly again even though she was back with that sleazy boyfriend. That was stupid. The lame date with the cheerleading coach. That was miserable. This really fucking takes the cake, though.

Lauren, the bridesmaid. Anson's cousin. That wasn't so bad. A total bummer, that's what it was, since she lives on the other side of the country.

He kind of had an inkling it wasn't a great idea to screw around with his new brother-in-law's cousin, but who was it who asked him to pick her up at the airport? Anson, that's who. And who asked "Could you just show her around town?" when they got held up at some stupid meeting with the caterer or whatever? That's right: Anson and Rachel, _both_, so . . . it's entirely possible they knew what would happen. Not that they ever found out, but even now his ears kind of perk up whenever Anson mentions something about his family or Christmas or Thanksgiving plans, because Jimmy wants to ask, "Will Lauren be there?" but he kind of can't, without then having to say, "Yeah, I screwed her on your wedding night."

Back then, back when he realized he had to entertain Lauren for the afternoon he'd asked, "Want to go to the beach?" LA in January. Not warm enough to lay out or anything, but pleasant enough, and nicer than most of the rest of the country.

Lauren just stared at him. "You realize I just flew out here from Miami? We have beaches there, too."

Oh. OK, the Observatory, then? His favorite place to visit.

They stood and let the Foucault Pendulum hypnotize them. Oohed and ahhed at the Tesla Coil. Watched a show at the planetarium. Looked out over the city. Nicest afternoon he'd had in a long time.

Then there was all the blah blah blah blah blah wedding stuff. Rehearsal. Rehearsal dinner. And all of Anson's family. Jesus. Jimmy couldn't keep them all straight. His older brother, his younger brother, his nephew, his niece, his grandparents on his dad's side, his grandma on his mom's side, his dad's brother, his dad's other brother, and then their wives, and their kids, and his mom's sister and her kids, and Jimmy decided he'd just nod pleasantly and smile at all of them. Rachel might have to keep them all straight, but he surely didn't. Probably couldn't.

At the wedding itself, he stood there making flirty faces at Lauren, and had to walk her back down the aisle, and well, the reception was open bar, and they danced and laughed, and they were staying at this very hotel - her room was just an elevator ride away. His, too, for that matter, not wanting to have to drive back to his apartment after a night of drinking. Hers was closer, though. They made out the whole elevator ride, and part of his brain was saying "How much of a cliché is this? Groomsman hooking up with the bridesmaid?" but she was kissing him and her hands were rubbing the back of his neck and, well clichés got to be clichés for a reason, didn't they?

They reached her door, and she shoved the keycard into the door slot, or tried to, as he stood behind her, with his hands around her waist. She grumbled, "I can't get the stupid thing in the slot." Jimmy laughed then, and said, "That better not be a premonition of things to come." Lauren laughed, too, a real, honest, and fun laugh. He reached his hand around to help her get the door unlocked.

In the room, the door shut behind them, she backed him into the wall, kissing him, her hands framing his face, then down to his shoulders, unbuttoning his tuxedo shirt. She stopped to grab hold of either end of his untied bow tie. "Wanna know when I decided I would sleep with you tonight?" she asked.

Not really, but OK . . . he nodded at her.

"When you undid your tie, and I realized it wasn't a clip-on. Weird, huh?"

"Kinda," he said, and she laughed again at his honesty (and her laugh was _amazing_, full throated and not at all girlish or shy or giggly). He took the lead, kissing her while running his hands down her sides, to the flare of her hips, reaching behind her, then back up her sides.

She slid the tie out of his collar, tossed it to the ground. She pulled off his tuxedo shirt and undershirt, ran her hands down his bare chest, let out a low, appreciative moan (Jimmy felt lucky it was the thick of hockey season, and him feeling particularly well-cut). Lauren started at his belt buckle, but then reached behind her back, fumbling at the clap on her bridesmaid dress. Unclasping it, she shimmied out of the dress and . . . Jimmy actually had to stop and do a double take.

"Uhm?" he asked, gesturing at her . . well, what? Undergarments? He tried his best not to laugh, because what was that?

She laughed again. "Blame your sister for this." Some industrial engineering level bra contraption that is meant to provide support for a backless, strapless, bridesmaid dress. She twisted her hands behind her, struggling and fumbling. He reached out a hand to her shoulder and turned her around. The damn thing had at least six rows of clasps. He ran a knuckle slowly down her spine, then unclasped the first. She moaned/whimpered just a little bit. He leaned in closer, kissed her shoulder, unclasped the second. He took his own sweet time, but by the time he got the whole thing undone, they were both desperate for further contact.

He turned her around, and if she'd just been admiring his chest in its finest, mid-season best, well . . . well, he was more than mildly appreciative of what she had been hiding up under that ridiculous bridesmaid brassiere.

He lifted her up with her ass on his left forearm, kissing her collarbone, then lower, carrying her over to the bed.

When they were finished, she laughed her full-throated laugh again. "Anson's the fifth of my cousins to get married," she said. "But I think this wedding is the best ever."

"Well, I only got the one sister, and no cousins, but I can't imagine much better," he panted, still trying to catch his breath.

Resting, she asked him if he tied his tie himself. He had. "What is it with you and ties?" he asked.

"Just think it's sexy when a man can do his own tie," she replied. He had her sit up, and she did, clutching the sheets to her chest. He gave that a smirk, and she lowered the sheet. Then he reached over the side of the bed, snatched up his tie, looped it around her neck, and began tying it on her. He worked slowly and deliberately, allowing his working hands to brush up against her breasts from time to time.

"There!" he exclaimed, all finished.

"I feel like a Playboy Bunny," she mock complained.

He looked confused. "Wouldn't know," he said. "I've never heard of this 'Playboy' of which you speak."

She swatted his shoulder, and leaned in to kiss him.

He woke up the next morning with ground glass in his eyes. Felt that way, at least. So they'd only ended up sleeping for two or so hours, but he didn't think he'd had _that_ much to drink. He screwed his eyes shut. Miserable. Ah, fuck, he realized what it was. Slept in his contacts.

He tiptoed into the bathroom, peeled the contacts off his eyeballs, ran water into his eyes, blinked a few times. He was beginning to feel some relief. He peered at himself in the mirror. His eyes were so red and blood-shot that his irises looked almost purple. His blonde hair was sticking up straight on his head.

He figured this is why Dad always kept his hair long. Keep it short like Jimmy always has, then sleep on it even for a little bit, and it sticks up like, well . . . his dad always called him "Calvin" after the cartoon boy.

He left the bathroom, trying to feel his way toward the bed, and . . .

"Son of a bitch!" he yelped, stepping on . . . on . . . he reached down to find the heel of Lauren's shoe.

"You OK?" she asked from the bed.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just your shoe," he tossed it to the side.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

"Ah, well, yeah. I can't see you. I'm blind as a bat without my contacts."

She took his hands in hers and led him back to bed. "Don't think you really need to see for what I've got in mind," she said to him.

Forty five minutes later, Jimmy reluctantly left her room, creeping down the hotel hallway in his tuxedo pants, unbuttoned tux shirt, jacket over his shoulder, shoes hanging from his fingertips. He hoped to make it up to his room without being noticed. He'd never done a black tie walk of shame.

A figure loomed down the hall, stooping over to pick up the _LA Times_ left in front of the door. So much for going unnoticed. He was just a few feet from the guy when he heard "A-_hem._" Fuck. It was Dad, he finally realized when he got close enough to see. Jimmy totally forgot they were staying at the hotel last night, too. Dammit.

"Well, well, well," Dad said. Great. Just great. Dad smiled a shit-eating grin and Jimmy knew he was going to have a ball with this. "I'm sure your mother told me you were on the ninth floor. But, yet, here ya are. All dressed up real nice, too. And _so_ early."

Jimmy shifted uncomfortably, stammered, "Lauren . . . ah . . .she . . . this floor, uh. . ."

Dad pounded him on the shoulder, two manly claps. "Way to go, son. A bridesmaid, huh?"

Jimmy felt like sinking into the floor. Dad would probably never let this go. Never.

Then he heard, from Dad's room, "James? What's taking so long? Are you coming back to bed?'

And then he wanted to sink even deeper into the floor. He crinkled his face like he could smell bad milk. Then stopped. You know what? All things considered, he supposed he was kind of glad that his parents still, you know, just . . . whatever. So, he recovered, pounded Dad on the shoulder, two manly claps. "Way to go, Dad. Mother of the bride, huh?"

Dad playfully wacked him on the side of the head with the newspaper. "We're gonna do the crossword, _Jimmy_. Head out of the gutter, son. What were you? Raised by a pack a wolves?" He leaned in close. "The real question is do I tell her who I been out here chit chattin' with?" Then he stepped back into his room with what Jimmy considered an overly cheerful grin and wave.

He had brunch with Lauren, offered to take her to the airport. She had a ride with an aunt, though, and Jimmy went back to his apartment alone.

He and Lauren IM'd a handful of times over the next few months. Then, out of the blue, she called in July to tell him she was in town for a dietician's conference. Was he free that night? _Of course_ he was (well, he was supposed to escort his mom to some foundation soiree, but . . . he could get out of that no problem).

They went to the Dodgers game, and in the fourth inning, while he was cracking peanuts from their shells and she was pulling a tuft of cotton candy from its spool, she sighed and said, "Jimmy. I have to tell you something."

He swallowed the joke he was gonna make about playing hooky from a dietician conference to eat spun sugar.

"I've been seeing someone," she said. "And I sort of thought I could come out here, see you, spend the night with you, and there'd no way he'd ever know about it. The thing is, _I_ would know about it, and I'm sorry, I just can't do that to him."

He felt so sad. Disappointed, sure, that they weren't going to spend the night together, but more so, sad that she met someone she cared this much about. _Good for her_, he thought. He joked, "Well, dammit, I should've worn a tie tonight, huh? Would that have helped?" She laughed her amazing laugh, and he wished he hadn't said anything remotely funny.

"I understand if you want to just go," she said then.

"Lauren, I'm disappointed, sure, but I'm having a good time. We can stay. If all I cared about was getting you into bed, I wouldn't have brought you here in the first place." He sounded so smooth. He thought maybe he never stammered around her.

"Thank you," she said.

"Seriously? Would the tie have helped?" He joked, grinning at her.

She looked down quickly. "Jimmy, don't smile like that at me."

The Dodgers won, he dropped Lauren at her hotel, got to his place after 10, and texted Tilly immediately:

_- Wanna come over?_

_- now?_

_- Y_

_- on my way_

She'd been texting him for weeks, and he'd been ignoring. Probably bored of that fat slob of an ex/current boyfriend, Ken. And since Jimmy was disappointed, and jealous (of Lauren's new guy, NOT NOT NOT of sleazy Ken), and horny, he was gonna get Tilly to come over for a good fuck. That's what. The fact that she so eagerly answered his text was about all the confirmation he ever needed that it was probably a good thing they were over.

She got to his apartment, and even though they hadn't seen each other in at least 6 months, they just skipped the small talk.

They were both shirtless, and she was working at the snap at his jeans when she blurted, "God, Jimmy, how could I forget how fucking hot you are?"

If it was meant to encourage him, it actually had the opposite effect. He reached down, and gently removed her hands from the top of his jeans. The reason she forgot is because what she really thinks of him (when she thinks of him at all, that is), is that he's a great big dork. Oh, sure, he's got a pretty face, and looks great with his shirt off, and is a hit in the sack. Sure, sure, she always remembered that . . . when she needed to. Otherwise, it was, "high school science? Lame." And she hated the framed picture of the constellations in his bedroom, and teased him for reading _Scientific American_ and quoting Star Wars and stopping in the Lego store at the mall.

He is a dork, he gets it, he totally does. When they first started dating and Tilly would tease him over it, he thought it was kind of cute, kind of sexy, even. Then he realized it was real. She really did think he was a dork. And she didn't love him for it, she loved him (if she really loved him at all) in spite of it. She wanted someone a little more dangerous. Someone who didn't hop-to when his dad called him to help move things to the attic. Someone who didn't volunteer to be the faculty rep for the science club. Someone who didn't feel embarrassed for spending a night in jail in college.

Someone like Ken. Her fat, slobby, motorcycle repairman ex and current boyfriend.

"Tilly, this isn't a good idea," he said, pushing her away from him.

"What? You text me for a little booty call, and now what? Pushing me away?"

"It's just. . . it's not . .. Tilly, I don't. . ." Fuck, here he goes stammering over his words.

"I just, I just, I just, I just . . . Just sack up and spit it out, Jimmy!"

He shook his head. "I don't want to do this. Please leave."

She put her shirt on, shaking her head, sneering at him. "What a fucking waste," she said. "That face, that body . . . wasted on _you_. Go play with your Star Wars figures, Jimmy. Do a chemistry experiment. Such a dweeb. Remind me of _that_ next time you text me."

"Fuck you, Tilly."

"That's what I came over here for, loser." She flipped him off, slammed the door behind her.

When she was safely out the door, he punched a hole in the wall. His mom hated Tilly (the feeling was mutual, he suspected). He'd have to patch up the wall before his mom came over to the apartment next. No way was he letting her know that she was totally right to hate Tilly.

Then there was Sheryl, the cheerleading coach blind date. She actually clapped and cheered when the appetizers came to the table. And laughed at everything he said that was even remotely humorous. He started saying things that weren't particularly funny just to see what she'd do. Experiment result: she'd laugh and laugh. He never called her back.

But Kate . . . Kate, now, that was something. What, exactly, he wasn't sure, but _something_. Nothing too serious. For one thing it was totally obvious she was still hung up on that Dr. Shephard dude from the flight. With good reason, Jimmy felt. Guy was like a genuine hero. Turns out, he'd asked Kate to marry him. So, yeah, Jimmy would probably have been weirded out if she _wasn't_ still hung up on him.

So, no, this wasn't going anywhere long-term. But in the short-term? She was fun and hot and she teased him, but wasn't mean-spirited about it. She was serious a lot of the time, in a sad, mysterious way Jimmy found fascinating. When he was able to make her smile a genuine smile, he felt like maybe his purpose (for now at least) was to ease this woman's sadness. And tonight, he'd hoped he could do a little of that sadness easing in his bed.

Tonight started out with such promise. Well, first there was getting past the Scylla and Charybdis represented by her friend and friend's daughter. The friend was clearly skeptical. Right away, Jimmy got the whiff of someone who's distrustful and cautious around men. He didn't really even bother trying to butter her up. Not his fault she hates men, not his place to fix it. Lucky for him, though, her daughter was a kick, all full of questions and sassy comments. Made him think of his sister at about the same age.

Safely past the Test of the Friend, Jimmy moved on to asking Kate to come to his place. She said yes, and a wonderful night stretched ahead. He took it nice and slow and easy. He got the feeling she was kind of a sure thing.

And it was all going so well. _So well. _Until she pulled out that ancient photo from . . . from where exactly? Trip to Yellowstone summer after first grade? Embarrassing, yes, with his socks pulled up to his knees, no teeth in his smile, cheesy mid-80s fashions, although he had to give it to them, Mom and Dad always managed to look kind of "normal," regardless of the year.

She wasn't teasing him about his socks, or his lack of teeth. She was fixating on his parents. Jimmy flashbacked to an argument he'd had with Tilly before Ken waltzed back into the picture.

"I thought we were gonna hang out together this afternoon."

"We will, Tilly, I promise. Just gotta go over to my folks'."

"Gotta go see Mommy and Daddy, huh?"

"He tore up his knee, Tilly. He needs help on the stairs. What would you have me do?"

"Aren't you people filthy rich or something? Can't you hire someone to help?"

Yes. And yes, they had. But this was his Dad. Wasn't Jimmy _supposed_ to help? His dad had always been there for him, and now it was Jimmy's turn to pay some of that back, and if it meant helping him up the stairs, or helping Mom with the dishes or getting Dad into the shower, then he'd do it (plus he felt guilty sweet talking him into that pickup basketball game where the knee explosion occurred).

Now Kate started in on his parents, too. What was the fucking deal? He loves his parents, OK? Doesn't everybody? (Well, not quite Kate, he'd learned). Even so, is it so Goddamn strange that he gets along with his parents? Jesus! It's not weird or anything – they live less than 10 minutes away, and yet he sometimes goes a month without seeing them. He'll go weeks without calling. Well, maybe just a week. Otherwise, Mom will call and leave worried messages on his voice mail.

Still, though. GEEZ. He owes a lot to his folks, appreciates all they've done for him. For his sister. Why do people have to keep making a fuss over this?

Before he even had a chance to suss out what all this concern over his parents was, Kate just about smashed his head in with a picture frame. WHAT THE FUCK? And thank God for hockey reflexes (or whatever it is that's always given him the ability to land a punch/back someone into the boards). Her problem? What she was so worked up over? She slept with his dad. Ha. Ha. Ha. And Mom knows about it. Yeah, OK, _sure_.

So he brought her here so she could see Dad with his creaky knee and white hair. Then he felt guilty for that. She didn't deserve to be mocked. Something was wrong with her, and if his dad ever taught him anything it was to be nice to women (even Tilly, he supposed). So, then he thought maybe he'd bring her in and let Mom make her some tea. That would make her feel better, right?

And . . . and ...

Here his is, in his parents' kitchen. Kate, Mom, and Dad having some kind of secret confab back in the den. WHAT THE FUCK? It's not true. It can't be. No. No. It's. . . It's.. . everything he's always known . . . thought he knew . . . here he is stammering in his own fucking head. How? How could Dad do that? How could Mom allow it? It just. . . it can't . . .he can't wrap his head around it.

He's finished one beer when he calls his sister. No one else will understand. He needs his big sister.


	22. What Happened, Pt 4

When he sits down for dinner, it's probably the first time he's been off his feet in at least twenty hours. His knees protest, creak, and ache. His feet feel three sizes too large for his shoes. Burning buses, shot kids, "hostiles" on the loose, Horace on his ass, one fucking thing after another. Juliet squeezes his shoulder, puts a plate in front of him. Ham sandwich and chips. She sits across from him. She looks pale, dark circles ringing her eyes. He heard somewhere that Ben was in surgery for at least ten hours. Jesus.

"You did a good thing today," he says. Linus is as creepy as a kid as he will be as an adult, but he is just that: a kid.

She doesn't respond right away. Then says, "Roger says you think Ben broke Sayid out."

"Kid'll do almost anything if he's pissed off enough at his folks." He saw Roger Fucking Linus this afternoon all spun up that his son could be dying. Out for bloody revenge. Fucker. Maybe he shoulda cared a little more before Ben ended up on the operating table. James has seen Ben with broken glasses, healing bruises. Just a Goddamn kid. No kid deserves that. Even one who grows up to be Ben Linus.

Maybe if Roger Linus pulled his head out of his ass just once and took the time to care just a little fucking bit about his own Goddamn _**SON**_, for Christ's sake. Maybe none of this (NONE of it, not the burning bus, the gutshot kid, the recruiting Juliet, the fake pacemaker, NONE OF IT) would have happened. Fuck it. What happened, happened. And what happened was that son of a bitch Roger Linus was a fucking ass to his own damn son.

James pushes his plate away. Too much thinking like this gets him thinking of his own father. Of the chance he's probably never gonna get with his own daughter.

"Just a kid," he says. "Why can't people just . . ." he starts, but he doesn't know how to finish that.

"Be nice to kids?" She guesses.

"Well, yeah. At least their own fuckin' offspring. Make this world a better place, I tell ya what. Less creeps like Linus and yours truly to deal with."

She rubs her eyes, changes the subject. "I'm turning in early tonight."

"Going to the garage tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I figure sooner things get back to normal, the better."

"Miles and I leave before dawn tomorrow to see if we can find Sayid. Or Alpert. I'll try not to wake ya when I go."

Seven AM the next morning and Miles still hasn't showed up. The hell? He was supposed to be here at 5:30. Miles is a lot of things – mouthy, nosy, irritating. Also: reliable. So, were the hell is he? James has been creeping around the house like a cat burglar, getting dressed, fixing toast, coffee, eggs, waiting for Miles. He's even been over to Miles' cabin and back and still can't find him. At what point does he set out for Hostile Territory on his own? Or should he get Juliet to go with him? She's dead to the world, though, and he hates to wake her.

There's a quiet tap-tap-tap on the door.

"Miles! Where the hell you been?"

"Faraday's back."

James' stomach lurches. Faraday's arrival right on the heels of Jack and the Gang? This can't be good can it? Or is it very, very, very good? Is this what they've been waiting on? To go back to their "right" time? Except he's not really sure what time is "right" for him anymore. Not that it matters. Juliet wants to get back to her sister. That's what matters. Right? But he really wants to stay somewhere where he's . . . well, not what he was there. Then. Then and there.

"Did you hear me?" Miles snaps.

"Yeah, yeah. Faraday. What's his deal?"

"I don't know. He came in on the sub. Woke me up. He wants me to take him to the Orchid."

They share a meaningful look. The Orchid. Where it all began. "Maybe where it'll all stop," Locke said once upon a time.

"Do we even need to bother with trying to find Alpert?" Miles asks. The plan is to explain the situation (as best as possible – James is still working up the appropriate lie), try to get things back to "normal" as soon as possible. And what's the point of "normal" if they're going back to the future? But James (sort of, kind of) doesn't want to go back to the future. But Miles does. And Jin does. And Juliet does.

James compromises. "Go ahead, take him out to the Orchid, then you come right back here. We still gotta keep up appearances."

"You got it, boss."

James watches the time, wonders what Dan's up to. He's not watching closely enough, though, because he soon realizes it's quarter to eight. Didn't Juliet say she was going in to the garage this morning? She's gonna be late. He peers into the bedroom, she's on her stomach, covers pulled mostly over her. About all that's uncovered is her right leg and right arm.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he calls.

"Mrmph." She tucks the arm and leg under the covers.

He picks up a flip flop from near the door and tosses it at her head. "Ain't you goin' in this morning?"

She pushes the flip flop away. Doesn't make much more effort to move. "I thought you were going to try not to wake me. What time is it?"

"Quarter to eight."

She sits upright then. "I'm late!" She leaps from bed, over to the closet, pulling a jumpsuit from the floor there. She brushes her hair back in a ponytail.

"I think Mac'll understand if you don't show up on time," James offers.

"I just want to get back to normal," she says.

"Miles says Faraday's back." In other words, I don't know that _back to normal _is gonna happen.

She stares at him briefly, processing those words. "That's why you're still here?"

He nods. She stares at him for a bit longer. He can't tell what she's thinking, her face is so blank. It's been awhile since he's been so unsure of her thoughts. Then it passes. She sighs. "OK, then," she says.

She walks past him toward the kitchen. She crinkles her nose at the congealed eggs and bacon he'd cooked more than an hour ago. "Gross," she says, reaching for the cabinet, and pouring a bowl of Dharma O's. She trucks through the Dharma O's, pours the rest of the coffee into a Thermos, and goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

Coming out, she gives him a hug. "Good luck out there today. Love you."

"Love you, too." He gives her a quick kiss. That's it. That's their goodbye. Not that he knows this.

She lets him go, and hurries out the front door. If he knew then it would be December before he saw her again, he'd of maybe said something more. Or maybe he would've watched her walk across the compound until she ducked under the shade of the motor pool carport. Or held her hand and walked with her the whole way.

Instead, he just sits and waits for Miles, who shows up ten minutes later. He's already got a Jeep, so they head off for the fence line. James asks if Dan's still crazy.

"It's on a whole new level, man," Miles answers. _Well, great._

They park the Jeep at the fence, and then tromp, tromp, tromp through the jungle. For HOURS. God, he's always hated this part. It's creepy back here. The Others creep him out big time. And yes, he gets that Juliet is . . . or was, er. . . will be. . . one, it doesn't make them any less creepy.

"Where the fuck are they?" Miles asks.

This isn't their first trip into the jungle for a little parley with Richard and Co. It's just, usually, they follow this path aways, and somewhere along the line, a Band of Others shows up. This is the longest they've been out here with no contact.

"Dunno," James answers. They stop at a stream to fill their canteens. The ground begins to shake. Miles drops his canteen, puts his hands to the ground to maintain balance. James stumbles forward, his knees falling into the stream. The shaking stops, and they look at each other.

"Shit," Miles whispers. "What was that?"

Before they have a chance to consider, the sky lights up. There's a high-pitched keening following just behind the light. The light flashes out seconds before the keening ends. It's deathly silent in the aftermath.

"Fuck," Miles whispers.

They stare at each other, then simultaneously say, "Time flash." For a second they're rooted in place. James on his knees in the stream, Miles on all fours on the stream bank. Then, without having to say anything, they jump up and make a beeline back to the fence.

Shit. They just flashed through time again, didn't they? When are they? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. James' lungs are on fire. The straightline path back to the fence is shorter than their little meandering stroll through the jungle, but it still isn't exactly lickety split to get back there. What are they gonna find when they get there? Did everyone else (_Juliet_) make the flash, too?

Panting heavily, Miles and James reach the top of a rise looking down on the fence line. There's the Jeep, looking good as new. And another one parked right next to it. He and Miles stare at each other. What does it mean? Somewhere in the recesses of James' memory Juliet is saying something about the Zodiac making the "trip" with them. Did the Jeep come along, too? Where (when) did this other one come from?

Miles and James trot down the hill, and approach the pylons. "Give it a shot," Miles suggests.

James opens the panel, punches in the fence code. The fence whines, hums, silences. "Powered down," James says. He and Miles stare at each other (all these shared meaningful looks, stares – he's gonna have to ask Miles to dinner and a movie if they keep this up). They climb into the Jeep, and James turns the keys in the ignition. No problem, the Jeep rumbles to life. Another shared look (_love you, Miles_, thinks James in jest).

They hightail it back to the barracks. It's a beehive of activity, folks scrambling all about, except . . . except _something_. Something not quite right. Here comes Stuart Radzinsky, headed straight for them, and James has never been so glad to see Mad Rad in his whole life. They didn't time flash. They're still here. Or, more accurately, still now.

"Where the hell have you been LaFleur?" Radzinsky shouts.

"We were out lookin' for the escaped hostile. What's goin' on?"

"We've been infiltrated, and I've been shot by a physicist!" Radzinsky practically screams.

_Faraday, no doubt. Don't look at Miles, don't look at Miles, don't look at Miles. Don't give anything away._

James asks, "Infiltrated? What? By who?" _Except me, I mean_, he thinks.

"By Faraday. And by, by, by . . .that janitor. That one you got to do surgery on Ben. Something you wanna tell us, LaFleur?"

Miles looks at him helplessly. _Oh, shit, they're caught. Think, think, think. Gotta be a lie to explain this. _"Sonofabitch," James sighs heavily, runs his fingers through his hair, buying time, buying time, buying time. "Stu, you gotta believe me, I didn't know . . .fuck . . . OK, OK, the truth is that guy? Jack?"

Radzinsky nods expectantly. _Think, think, think. Something . . ._

"Well," James begins, letting out another sigh. _Tick tock, tick tock. Think of SOMETHING to say._

_Got it. Got it! Here you go_: "He and Juliet, they used to have kinda a thing, you know? So, when I got wind he's comin' here, I decided to mess with his aptitude scores. Make him out to be no better'n a janitor. I figured show him who's boss, ya know? I thought I'd mess with him for a week or so, then give up the gig. But when Ben got hurt, I realized I better come clean. Ask Juliet if ya don't believe me."

Radzinsky sarcastically says, "Oh, yeah, I'll get right on that," (and what the hell does that mean?). But it looks like he might be buying this. Actually . . . it's almost as much the truth as it is a lie. "Stu, look. I had no idea. I don't even know what happened. You gotta believe me."

"And Faraday?" Radzinsky asks.

"Your guess is as good as mine. That guy was always a nutjob. He's been in Ann Arbor longer than he ever was with us." _He's buying it. He's buying it. Swoop in for the kill_: "Stuart. Stuart. Look at me: We have known each other for _three years_. We are not bad people! We ain't here to hurt you."

"Yeah, well. . ."

"Tell me what happened."

Radzinsky orders them back in the Jeep, tells them to drive him out to the Swan, and starts his story. Miles takes the wheel, and Stuart begins.

"That janitor and Faraday shot us up and stole a Jeep." (_the Jeep at the fence line?_) "We were trying to figure out what the fuck was going on, looking for the _Head of Security_." James doesn't miss the disdain Radzinsky puts on those words. "Then, Chang orders an evacuation. Says something's gonna happen at the Swan Site." (_Evacuation? What?_) "Next thing we know that janitor is back, and he's got the hostile who shot Ben with him." (_Well, fuck, that's no good_). "Good thing is, Roger shot the bastard." (_Oh, fuck_). "Anyway, the janitor and the new fat guy?" (_oh, fuck, fuck, fuck_) "they took off in a van with the hostile. They may have had Jin hostage." (_Jesus_) "We followed them out to the Swan, and they dropped a _bomb_ into the shaft." (_WHAT THE FUCK?_) "It didn't go off, but we hit the pocket of energy, and everything went haywire. Then there was this white light." (_right - the time shift that wasn't_). "That seemed to stop everything for awhile. But 108 minutes later, the electricity went haywire again. Then again 108 minutes after that. We've got 45 minutes till the next one."

They're speeding along, and James is trying to process everything. Fucking Jack. Fucking Jack. Something's pinging at the back of his brain. Something Radzinsky said. James replays the conversation. Remembers. "Evacuation? You evacuated? Looks like a lot of folks still here."

"Women and children only." (_so that's what was 'off' back at barracks – no women or kids_)

James feels sick. "_All_ women and children?"

"Yep," Radzinsky says. He hands over the muster list. This was James' idea. If there was any sort of evacuation, they should make sure that no one got left behind. James looks down at the clipboard, doesn't even need to turn over the first page. There, right there, three quarters of the way down the first column: BURKE, JULIET. And a blue ballpoint pen checkmark. No, no. Surely she figured some way out of it. Surely some kind of Others trick, and she's still here hiding out . . . somewhere.

"Park here, Miles," Radzinsky commands.

"We're still at least a mile out," Miles notes.

"This is as close as we're getting. You guys got any metal on you?"

Miles and James leave behind their guns, their walkies, and set off on the path to the Swan.

"We've got six dead," Stu tells them. James and Miles share another one of their meaningful looks. _Please not Jin. Please not Hurley. OK, fine, please not Jack, OK?_ Stu keeps going. "The janitor? The fat guy? The hostile? They just disappeared. Not a trace of them anywhere." Fuck. A time shift? Did they shift?

Miles gulps. "How about . . . how about," he clears his throat. "How about Dr. Chang?"

"He busted up his hand real good. Real good, but I think he's going to make it through," Radzinsky answers. "But listen, guys." He stops. "I've got to tell you. Jin? He disappeared, too. No sign of him."

Radzinsky walks on further, and they approach the site. "Did they time shift?" James asks Miles, who shrugs. Shit, maybe it's good that little blue checkmark is by Juliet's name. Maybe. If she's on the sub, that is.

Pandemonium prevails at the site. People hard at work with power tools, stripping the scaffolding and dark green metal.

"We're trying to get as much out as possible during the lull," Radzinsky tells them. "You guys are here to help with the bodies."

Fuck. There's Phil. Impaled in the chest. James feels sick. Grits his teeth. Guy was an uptight pain in the ass, but he didn't deserve _this_. Two other members of his team, three of Stu's. He and Miles get to grave digging. He tries to ignore the fact that these are people he knows . . . knew. They worked shifts together, ate lunches together, shared Dharma beers. He just digs and digs and then piles dirt and piles dirt.

"Hey, I think that'll do, boss," Miles interrupts. They've got to move on to the next one.

They work until the early evening. Every hour and a half, a shrill whistle pierces the air, and they all jog out to a perimeter determined by one of Radzinsky's squad. Finally, around 8, Radzinsky (who's somehow now in charge of everyone), lets everyone go. He keeps a team at the site overnight. "Be back tomorrow at 6," he instructs.

"Sure thing, boss," James mutters under his breath.

He drops Miles off at his cabin. Jin's just fucking gone. Just gone. And Juliet? Gone, too, huh?

He's got some hope when he approaches his (their) house, but it is cold, dark, silent. He flicks on light switches. How can she be gone? She's fucking _everywhere_. It smells like her in here, the blanket she snuggles under when reading is still wadded up at the end of the end of the couch, her work boots are right up against the front door, her bandana on top of them.

He walks into the kitchen. How can she be gone? How can she be gone when her cereal bowl is still on the counter, two swollen and soggy Dharma O's sitting in a tiny pool of milk? He spies a note:

_James –_

_Women & children evacuating. Guess that means me? Doesn't seem like it, but off I go. Hoping this works out and we turn right around. I'd skip, but someone (__YOU__) made mustering a requirement. If we don't turn right around, I'm off to the "real world." Don't even know what that means anymore . . . See you soon?_

_Love you, J_

He crumbles the note in his hand, notices the barked knuckles there. He plods to the bathroom, washes his hands. Her toothbrush is gone, but her hairbrush is still here. How can she be gone? He opens the cabinet under the sink, pulls out Band-Aids, Neosporin. The cabinet is more her than him – tampons, glass canister of cotton balls, lotion, conditioner, bath gel, extra shampoo ordered in special from the sub . . . she can't be gone. She can't be. She's gonna need all of this. All her stuff.

He trudges into their (his) bedroom, taking off his boots at the door. He falls into bed. He should get something to eat, but is too damn tired. He lies back, and his head lands on a flip flop. How can she be gone? He threw this at her this morning. How can she be gone? Her pillow still bears the impression of her head. How can she be gone?

He lies there replaying their last conversation.

"Wonder why they don't make Dharma Fruit Loops," she asked, halfway through her bowl of Dharma O's. "It's weird but, I could really, _really_ go for some Fruit Loops right now. Dharma O's, Dharma Flakes, Dharma wheat Chex, but no Dharma Fruit Loops."

"Put it in Horace's suggestion box," James said.

For most of the next five months, James will re-run that conversation over and over in his head. Their last conversation, and it was about fucking Fruit Loops. Son of a bitch.

* * *

**FYI, James and Miles didn't time shift because they weren't close enough to the site.**

**I've had a horrible, no-good, crap-tastic week, so leave a review and make me feel better. Erm, only if the review is nice. Otherwise, wait a few days until we've moved out of this Hell Week.**


	23. Miles and the LaFleurs: The Big Four Oh

**Thanks for all the reviews last chapter! My week did get better, thanks. At least the things that *could* get better, did get better!**

**By popular demand, the first of a handful of Miles chapters I'm going to sprinkle in.**

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**November 17, 1981, Ann Arbor, Michigan**

A cold, miserable piss rain. Soon as he has enough money (and he _will_ have enough money, it's only a matter of, heh, _time_), he's outta here. Somewhere warm. Somewhere he can get an In-N-Out. Southern California, preferably. And if _they_ get all wacky about not wanting to uproot the kids or whatever, well then_ they_ can deal with the Michigan winters. Cause Miles? Miles is outta here first chance.

Miles rushes from the car to the front door, knocks quietly (he woke up Jimmy once by knocking too loud, and he swears Juliet gave him the death stare for at least a week after).

Jim comes to the door. "Evenin', Enos," he says, quietly (yep, someone's asleep). Miles takes off his jacket, retrieves his little wrapped gift box from an inside pocket. Jim leads him back to the kitchen, says, "I'm makin' a lasagna." He doesn't miss Miles' skeptical look and amends, "Stouffer's is makin' a lasagna. I stuck it in the oven."

In the kitchen, Rachel's at the table, hunched over construction paper, markers, stickers. She waves at him, and gets back to work. Miles sets the present on the kitchen counter.

LaFleur takes two beers from the fridge, pops the tops, and hands one to Miles. He gestures at the gift on the counter. "What's that?"

"A birthday gift." _Duh._

"I realize that, Oda Mae. I mean, what is it?"

"Diamond bracelet."

Jim chokes on his beer. "Funny. Seriously, what is it?"

"Seriously. It is seriously a . . . diamond bracelet." ("a fucking diamond bracelet" is what he meant to say, but they've always got to talk with these weird pauses and elisions when the kids are around.)

"You can't give her a diamond bracelet," Jim says.

"Why the . . . why not? Worried I'm gonna steal your girl, LaFleur?"

"It's too expensive, that's why."

"I'm gonna be rich one day, buddy. Sure thing." Miles takes a sip of beer.

Jim huffs. "Well, ya can't give her a diamond bracelet. I'm just givin' her a book. You can't give a better gift than me."

"Give better gifts, then."

Jim huffs again. Rachel pipes in, "I'm giving Mama a picture of a rainbow."

Jim turns to his daughter and smiles. "That's nice, sweetheart." Then back to Miles, glaring. "A diamond bracelet? Seriously?"

"Yep. How often do you turn forty anyway? It's a big deal."

"OK, listen, don't make a big fuc. . . a big deal of that, OK?"

"It _is_ a big deal. Big four-oh."

"Just don't," Jim commands.

"Come on, forty's not that old, man," Miles wheedles.

"It is when you're. . ." Jim stops. "It is. Just don't." Miles ponders what curse word that pause was supposed to be.

"You're the boss," he gives in. "Where's the birthday girl, anyway?"

"Business school, I think. Somewhere. I don't know. Tryin' to figure out when Cisco gets founded. Expect her back any minute."

They talk for a while longer, Miles sitting with Rachel, drawing, Jim puttering around the kitchen making salads, both men complaining about their new shift commander at campus security. Jim asking way too-intrusive questions about why Miles didn't bring Claudia with him. Because he and Claudia are done. Because how are you supposed to get too close to anyone when essentially all but the past seven years of your life is a lie? It hurts when you start talking about your childhood, and you realize you have to tell about this made-up version that took place in the 1950s. But Jim wouldn't understand that, would he? Nooooooooooo. No, not at all, because he doesn't have to deal with that crap. Juliet either, and she's bound to be just as intrusive and nosy when it comes to asking about Claudia.

Jim's still chopping carrots or something. Miles finishes up his drawing, and Rachel peers over to evaluate. "What is it?" she asks.

"A Jeep." HA fucking HA. He can hear the knife stop chopping. He looks up to see Jim flip him the bird. Miles should stop. He really should. But, Jesus! It's just too damn funny.

They hear the front door open. Juliet comes around the corner, rain dripping from her jacket. She bends over to kiss Rachel on the cheek. Miles folds up his drawing so she can't see. It's her birthday, after all. Give her a (slight) break.

"Well, what did ya find out?" Jim asks.

She sighs. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I guess we've got a few more years, at least? I say we just put the extra into HP." Rain drips from Juliet's jacket onto Rachel's current project, and she howls in protest.

"Sorry, baby," Juliet says, removing her jacket, and that's when Miles notices.

"You have _got_ to be shi… kidding me," he says, eyes focused on Juliet's midsection. And, oops. Oh, crap. Maybe he should've kept his big damn mouth shut, because what if she's just put on weight, and oh, on her birthday, too, and even a diamond bracelet isn't gonna stop the death stare for even longer than that time he woke up Jimmy.

But then Juliet is looking over Miles' head, right at LaFleur, and they are sharing one of those stupid gooey-eyed looks. Like they're the only two people in the freaking world who are capable of doing this sort of thing. _Hey, guess what, guys? The 17-year-old who takes my orders at the Orange Julius in the mall is knocked up, too, so get over yourselves._

Great. More of this sappiness. Fuck. Most of the time, they are totally un-sappy. Even back in the day, back when they thought they were so sneaky and no one had yet figured out they were doing the horizontal mambo, even back then, it wasn't like they were grossly sappy or anything. It's why the whole Jeep thing is So. Fucking. Funny.

Nope, they aren't gross or sappy at all. Except when she's pregnant. Jesus. He really has to put up with this again? At least with Rachel, he only had to deal with it for like three months or so, but with Jimmy? Fucking put him out of his misery. And now, what? He's got to deal with this for . . .

"Am I totally clueless, or what?" he asks. "How long has this been going on?"

Juliet breaks gooey eye contact with Jim (_kill me now_, thinks Miles; _just kill me now_). "Ten weeks," she says.

"Ten weeks? That's all?" He's trying to think back to when he first found out about Jimmy, and it seemed like it was later than ten weeks, but even so it wasn't like he could see any belly or anything.

WHACK! And again for good measure: WHACK. LaFleur's just whacked him upside the head. Miles gingerly puts his right hand to the back of the head. "Ow! What was that for?"

Luckily, Juliet's been clueless to this whole exchange. She's distracted, hearing Jimmy wake up, and steps out to go get him. Well, not before first stepping over and giving Jim a little kiss on the lips, and they both say "hey there," in a way that is just too too_ too_ gushy for Miles' taste. He looks at Rachel, sticks out his tongue at her. He's really got to put up with this for half a year? Or he could consider gouging out his eyes.

Once Juliet is out of the room, Miles says "You know what causes that, right?" and pats his tummy.

Then he immediately regrets the question, because Jim says "Yep," with a stupid, smug grin that essentially says "I get to have sex with a hot woman who knows I'm a time traveler and we have two super-cute kids and another to come, so, you, Miles, can suck it." And Miles feels extremely jealous.

Which isn't fair. Not at all. They include him in _everything_. They called him to bring his camera when Rachel took her first steps. Jimmy said "Miles," (well, technically, "Mize") before he said "Dada." (Ha ha _HA_, suck it, LaFleur). Juliet already agreed to be his date to the big UM Asian-American Society dinner in March (he likes the idea of bringing the most Aryan-looking person he's ever met to that particular function). Jim got him his job with campus security. He's only going to be rich because Juliet spends days like today out in the shitty, drizzly, freezing cold, going who knows where to try to figure out something about Cisco.

Still doesn't mean LaFleur can't be a smug asshole at times. Like now with that stupid, goofy grin. Fucker.

Dinner is great, and he feels guilty again for being jealous. They are his family. Jimmy's sitting at the table now in a booster seat, smearing lasagna everywhere. Miles makes faces at him to make him laugh. Rachel's acting prissy, rolling her eyes, grossed out by her little brother. She doesn't realize she has tomato sauce in her bangs. There's an ongoing internal joke about the old man down the street always hitting on Juliet. There's gifts and cake and singing of "Happy Birthday," and if he didn't have them, he wouldn't have anyone.

Jim puts the kids to bed, and Miles helps Juliet clean up the kitchen. "So, where's Claudia tonight?" she asks, and here we go again . . .

He really likes Claudia, and it's just not working, OK? It's just not, and you people have no fucking clue. GAH! GAH! Spitefully, he says, "You are a lot bigger than when you were pregnant with Jimmy." He gets a raised eyebrow instead of a death glare, meaning she knows he's being rude on purpose.

"Mmmmm hmmm. She find someone better? Or just better looking?" Two can play the game.

"She found someone with a real past," he says. And, there, that's the truth. There, OK? Juliet reaches out to put a hand on his arm, but she doesn't say anything. Then they start back with washing, drying, putting away.

Once the kids are asleep and the kitchen is clean, the adults sit in the living room. Juliet and Jim on the couch, her with her feet on his lap. Miles supposes that's not too ultra-gooey. She's going on about the _San Francisco Chronicle_ on microfiche, and Cisco and Sun Microsystems and how she thinks they need to get out of Apple soon, but she is trying to remember when they need to get out and get back in, and LaFleur makes some joke here about getting out and back in, which she ignores to keep on about Intel and yada yada yada yada. He used to pay attention. He's since figured out that when she's going on like this, it's just thinking aloud, and he and Jim are meant to sit and say "mmmm hhmmm," and "sounds good," or whatever at appropriate points. This is how it works: Miles and Jim bring home the money from their security jobs and sports bets. Juliet is the brains of the investing operation. Seems to be working so far.

"Also, I think we need to diversify. More than just tech stocks. The music industry gets pretty big in the late 80s and 90s, everyone buying CDs. We've got to get out in time, though."

"Mmmm hmmm," Miles and Jim nod along in unison.

"Wait here," she tells them. "I was gonna hold off, but I've got something I can't wait to show you."

After she's gone, Miles whispers, "Psssssssst, LaFleur," and waves him in close. Once Jim leans over, Miles whispers, "Have you ever considered she's just lulling us into a false sense of security with all this," he indicates the room, the house, the comfy sofa, recliner, toys in the corner, kid drawings on the coffee table, "but really she's a secret evil genius mastermind who's gonna run off with all our money?" (He's totally kidding – like 95% totally kidding.)

Jim nods, looks serious. "I _did _used to think she was evil," he mulls over the possibility. "And she _is_ a genius. It all kinda makes sense. You know, she's always goin' on about livin' in like a dormant volcano lair or somethin'. You may be onta something."

"Tell me this," Miles whispers back, "have you ever heard her laugh maniacally?"

She's back, though, and the men lean back into their seats. She watches them closely, contemplating whether to say anything about their suspicious behavior. Instead, she puts a sheet of paper down in front of each of them.

"Bank statements. We've got $100,000 in our account. Miles, you've got $100,000 in yours."

"Holy shit, we're rich!" Miles crows.

Jim just stares at the statement, shaking his head, looking at Juliet with another big goofy grin, not so icky as before, though.

"Well, not yet," she answers Miles. "But getting there." Then abruptly, she asks, "Who wants more cake?" The men beg off, too full, no thanks, etc. "Let me rephrase," she says. "Who wants to bring the birthday girl more cake?" And Jim does, of course, because sometimes he's just her little bitch. He doesn't miss the look Miles is giving him, though, and bonks him on the head on the way out.

While he's gone, Juliet admires her bracelet, starts in again on "You shouldn't have."

"Well, you don't have to do all my investing homework for me, so I guess I owe you," he says. And it's for more than that. It's for letting him be a part of her family, but he's not a little bitch and won't say anything goofy like that to her face.

She says, "I always sort of figured there'd be flying cars or something before I turned 40. Instead . . ." she trails off.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," Miles says, "it didn't look like they'd have gotten flying cars figured out by 2011, either."

"Yeah, but they had cell phones. And Google." She shakes her head, goes back to watching the bracelet sparkle.

Jim walks in with the cake, catches her admiring the bracelet. He clears his throat. "There's more to my gift than what I gave ya already." He puts the cake down in front of her. He gave her a book, that kids book with the spider and the farm and the pig. She almost cried about it when he gave it to her, and gave him a kiss and said she loved it, and Miles wonders how that works. Knock some chick up, and then you can give shitty gifts like kid books about spiders, because they'll love it anyway? Whatever. LaFleur's a lucky prick.

"I loved the book, James, you know I did," she says now.

"Yeah, well there's more, and I can't tell ya about it in mixed company," he glares over at Miles, "because it's a special bedroom-only gift." _Gross, gross, gross. _

"The gift that keeps on giving, huh?" she smirks at him, pats her belly. If Miles gouges his eyes out, he's still going to be able to _hear _crap like this, so he is stuck. They are so fucking gross.

Miles slaps his hands on his knees and stands up. "My cue to leave," he says.

He shakes Jim's hand, gives Juliet a hug. "Congrats," he says, about the money mostly ($100,000! They really are going to be rich), but the baby, the big 4-0, you name it.

"Thank you, Miles," she kisses him on the cheek. He remembers when he used to think she was hot. Well, he supposes he still kind of does. Sort of - she's in that totally off-limits category. You're not supposed to think your sister-in-law (which she's not really, but is sure seems that way) is hot.

He steps out the front door. The rain's stopped, and it brought a cold front on its way out of town. Jesus, it's freezing! He cups his hands to his mouth, blows on them for warmth. His breath steams around him. The sky is so clear, the stars so bright. God, it's cold.

Soon as he has enough money (and he _will_ have enough money, a cool hundred thou already in the bank), he's outta here. Somewhere warm. Somewhere he can get an In-N-Out. Southern California, preferably. And if _they_ get all wacky about not wanting to uproot the kids or whatever, well then_ they_ can ... well, he can try to convince them to come with him. Cause Miles? Yeah, Miles isn't going anywhere without them.

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**PS. I don't know if I can fit it in to the story, but in my mind, Miles reconnects with Claudia in the "present time" (i.e., with grownup Jimmy and Rachel), and since he's been living in the past so long, he feels more comfortable with his life. So, he and Claudia live happily ever after, even if a lot later than they could have.**


	24. Memento

****

**I am not getting email updates from this site. Or, I'm getting some, but not all. Or, they are like 48 hours behind. So, I apologize if I didn't respond to your review. **

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Rachel closes her laptop. Damn but this project is driving her batty. The Film Department. Huff. _HUFF._ Why are they even at an art museum anyway? How do you preserve a film? Put it on DVD, right? Not when "the film is the medium." Right. She gets it, OK? The thing is, you've got to store the film in a cold vault, and they don't have a cold vault, soooooo . . . It's LA. Someone will store it, it's just the artist, Henri (_and give me a break, the guy's name is Henry_), will get all hand flappy and queeny and INSANE if she doesn't keep it at the museum and she did NOT become a conservator for crap like this.

Tomorrow she's got to meet with Henri, and maybe it'll go better than last week. Of course, as she was finishing up her meeting last week, Dad happened to drop by for lunch. "That guy's as queer as a 3 dollar bill," he said.

"_Dad._"

"What? Ain't like he's hidin' his light under a bushel or nothin'." Henri is a friend. A good one. And he drives her absolutely around the bend about half the time, but even so, she doesn't like Dad going on about him.

"Never mind, Dad. Let's just go to lunch," she said, wishing Mom had dropped by instead. Dad always says wacky and mortifying stuff. On the other hand, whenever Mom comes by, she can get too stare-y and listen to Rachel's work problems in a weird and intense and kind of stressful way. Better that they never drop by at all, or better yet: come by together. Dad tends not to be as crude and embarrassing when Mom's around, and Mom is a lot more chilled out around Dad.

Mom. Shit. Maybe that's what Rachel should be working on now – Mom's birthday present. Another project to drive her batty. It started last year as an idea for their thirtieth anniversary. About six weeks before Rachel was born, a pipe burst in Mom and Dad's apartment and flooded the place out. Not a big deal, except the closet where it started had all their photographic memories – high school yearbooks, pictures from childhood, family pictures.

Rachel had this bright idea she'd track down some copies. High school yearbooks, at least. Dad always said he didn't give a shit, and he grew up in foster care, so that's probably true. Mom, though, she always said "I still have my memories, and that's what matters," but Rachel can tell she kind of misses that stuff. She tried last fall to track down Mom's high school yearbook, but she must have had the school name wrong or something. No record of her mom. Someone with the same name who graduated in 1989 – uhm, _NO._ And it's not like she can ask Mom for clarification without giving away the surprise.

Rachel's going to try to track down a picture of her grandfather. He was killed in the Korean War when Mom was only nine. The VA is bound to have a picture, right? Maybe she should hunt down who to call.

Or she could eat some more Cap'n Crunch. Soooo good, Cap'n Crunch. Instead she turns on the TV, flips through the channels. Oooh. _The Muppet Movie_. An all-time fave from childhood. She hopes she hasn't missed the part where Kermit and Fozzie actually turn left at the giant fork in the road.

The phone rings. Maybe Anson. He's supposed to come home tonight. She checks the caller ID. Jimmy's cell? What's he want? She considers letting it go to voicemail, but thinks maybe he might know more about where and when their granddad died. Inchon?

"Hey, Jimmy, what's up?" she answers.

He just starts right in with, "You know that girl I've been seeing?"

"The one from the plane crash?"

"She slept with Dad," he says.

Huh. Rachel looked that girl up on the Internet after Jimmy started seeing her. And that . . . she slept with her dad (ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, and why would you phrase it like that: "slept with"?) . . . that kind of makes sense. "Jesus," she whispers. "Oh my God, Jimmy. That's awful. Is that why she blew him up?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"Didn't she blow up her dad?"

"No. She didn't sleep with _her_ dad. She slept with _our_ dad."

"Whose dad?"

"_Ours_. Yours and mine," he's insistent.

Rachel jerks her head back, pulls the receiver from her ear and stares at it. Like there will be some explanation there. "JIMMY IS HIGH" it might read. No answers on the phone. She puts it back to her ear. "Ha ha, Jimmy. What do you really want?"

"I'm serious. She fucked Dad."

"Good night, Jimmy. Call me when you're sober." She clicks off the phone, tosses it to the couch.

She turns up the volume on the Muppets. She _is_ going to get some more Cap'n Crunch. The phone rings again, her cell this time. She's not going to answer, but looks at the readout anyway. "Mom & Dad," it says, with a tiny little digital picture of a house. Mom and Dad are calling? What?

"Hello?" she answers tentatively.

"Don't hang up, Rach," Jimmy blurts.

"Why are you at Mom and Dad's?" she asks.

"I told you . . ."

"You told me your girlfriend slept with Dad. Give me a break, Jimmy."

"Rachel, please. I'm not kidding. Just come over to Mom and Dad's. I'll tell you everything."

Rachel contemplates this. What is going on? Some kind of practical joke? Or a surprise party (it's not her birthday,_ hello_). Well, hell, Anson's not getting back until after 11 anyway, what else is she gonna do but eat Cap'n Crunch and track down people at the VA? Or, worse, what she really needs to do and has been procrastinating: type up that quarterly report for her department. "OK, fine. See you soon."

She drives over there, and it's really kind of embarrassing how close she lives to her parents. She likes the area, though, even if she doesn't like when Dad randomly stops by to drop off books or extra lawn tools or whatever. Well, she supposes she kind of _does_ like it, and that's embarrassing, too.

She pulls into Mom and Dad's driveway, behind Jimmy's car. What the hell is going on? She's actually kind of excited. This is way more fun and entertaining than sitting around alone, eating cereal, typing boring reports, and waiting for Anson to get back.

She comes in quietly, sees light in the kitchen. Jimmy's got his head in the fridge. When he stands back up, he's holding two beer bottles by their necks. "Want one?" he offers.

"Uhm, _no_."

"Right, I forgot." He smirks at her, and if _he says one thing to them . . . I swear._

He goes back to sit at the island, and she sees an empty bottle already there. He pops the cap on the next beer and drinks.

"Where's Ansel Adams?" he asks her. And here, normally, is where she'd give him a lecture on what Ansel Adams did versus what Anson does, but now doesn't seem the time. Anson is a photojournalist, and, to his everlasting chagrin, he's currently following the Joe Biden entourage. "America's most historic election, and I'm following Biden," he'll complain.

Clearly he'd prefer Obama or Palin - where he could take that one shot that might make history, or just get Mom and Dad going on Sarah Palin again. Mom all uppity and huffy, "If being a hockey mom qualifies you to be President, _I_ should run for President." Dad all into her because he thinks she's hot, and he "always loved a woman who could handle a gun," and in a lifetime of weird shit Dad says, that's gotta be up there, because. . . _what_? _And since when?_

Jimmy doesn't need a lecture on the history of Ansel Adams or the ins and outs of the campaign trail, though. "What's going on, Jimmy?"

"I had Kate over at my apartment tonight," he starts.

"Bom chika wow wow."

"Shut up. It's not funny. Trust me."

"OK. Keep going."

"So, she was just like, looking around and stuff, sees this picture of Mom and Dad, and goes apeshit. When I finally got her to explain, she said she screwed Dad."

"When?" Rachel asks.

"I don't know. Not even an hour ago."

"No, Bozo. When did she screw Dad?"

"Oh, like three years ago? Four? I don't remember."

"What picture did she see? From my wedding?" Like it matters, but Rachel is kind of into photos, their impact on people, family memories, archiving.

"No. I think it was our trip to Yellowstone. Remember that?"

That doesn't make one lick of sense. How did she recognize them? "Yellowstone? That was more than twenty years ago - how could she even . . ."

"I know it doesn't make sense, Rachel. I know that. So, I brought her over here to prove her wrong or something. Except when I walked her into the kitchen, you would've thought I was bringing a ghost home."

Funny choice of words. Jimmy was scared to death of ghosts when he was a kid. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Kate passed out. Mom and Dad both . . . I mean, it was totally like they knew her. Oh, and shit, I forgot! Kate said they taped it or something."

"Ew."

"Yeah, and that she thinks there's a chance Mom might have seen it."

"EW! _**What?**_ What the hell, Jimmy?"

"It's the most bizarre thing I've ever heard, and yet, they picked her up and took her back to the den."

"That's where they are now?"

"Yep."

She stares at him. He's finished his second beer, and pops the cap on the third. He's not kidding. This isn't some elaborate thing he's made up. He's a total crap liar, and this story is so zany. If he was lying, he'd be laughing by now, and he isn't laughing – he's drinking. She leans back against the counter.

"I don't understand," she finally says.

"Well, that makes two of us."

Do Mom and Dad have some kind of _arrangement_? That's . . . that's . . . why would Mom even allow that? And, sorry, don't try telling Rachel "it's just sex," because, sorry, maybe men can think like that, but no way . . . no way . . . _no way_ Mom thinks that way, so . . . so, what? What?

Rachel just stands there, staring at Jimmy. He stares back. For a second, they're kids again, having a staring contest. He always won. Always. She blinks, looks away, stares at a liquid measuring cup on the floor. She looks back up at Jimmy, and he smirks, raises his eyebrows at her, and takes a deep swig of beer. Son of a bitch, he won _again_.

"Thanks for calling me," she says seriously.

"My pleasure," he says, full of exaggerated politeness. They both laugh, short, silent snorts.

It's a good thing she's here. Jimmy can't handle this. He's a breeze at cocktail parties, all full of small talk and smooth talking. But conflict? Something going wrong? Anything that makes him feel uneasy? He gets all stammery and awkward, and running his hands through his hair. Rachel's got no idea about this Kate person, but no doubt, Mom and Dad could come out here and talk right over Jimmy. Rachel's not going to let that happen.

And just like that, here they come. Let's not beat around the bush here, people. No sense in not getting this all out in the open. Let's hear it. Tell me it's not true, because it isn't. Is it? It can't be. It just can't.

"So, is it true? What Jimmy said? Did you screw her, Dad?" she asks. _No, Rachel, no. This has all been a big misunderstanding._ That's what Dad's going to say.

"I called Rachel," Jimmy says. No duh, brainiac. See? This is why he can't handle this sort of thing.

Dad says, "We're gonna explain it all."

Wait. What? WHAT?_ Explain it all?_ All he had to say was "no." She flat-out asked the question, and all he needs to say is "No. No I did not have sexual relations with that woman."

"That doesn't sound like a 'no.'" _Come on, Dad. Come on. Please say it's not true. _

Except Mom talks now. "It's complicated, sweetie."

Uh, what? Complicated? How, exactly? Either he stuck it where it doesn't belong or he didn't. Not. Complicated. Holy crap, Mom, what the hell? How? How can Mom just stand by and take it? She can just look the other way while her husband sleeps around on her? No way. NO WAY. That's not Mom. She'd never ever stand for that crap. No sirree, Bob.

All Rachel can say is "I . . . it . . . it . . ," and, hey, who's getting all stammery now, huh? Frustrated at her own personal attack of the Jimmies, Rachel throws her arms wide, strangles out a sound, "Gahrgh!" Then, "I can't believe you're standing up for him! It is _NOT_ complicated, Mom. Jesus! Either he screwed around on you or he didn't!"

Dad says, "Don't talk to your . . ."

Oh, Dad wants to lecture on how to talk to Mom, does he? Well, he lost any right to do that when he FUCKED ANOTHER WOMAN. Ohmygod._ What the hell, Dad? _He can really do that? Screw around with women? Break Mom's heart (or not, why the hell is Mom so calm about this?)? That's not Dad. Dad would never ever treat a woman so piss poor. Nuh uh.

Full of anger, she turns on him. "And _you_, don't even get me started. My whole life always telling me to stand up for myself, not let boys put one over on me. Telling Jimmy he better act like a gentleman . . . What a crock of horseshit, Dad. Screwing around on Mom – with Jimmy's _girlfriend_!"

Jimmy snarks, "I think 'girlfriend' is probably going a little too far, Rach." And thank God for Jimmy, because that remark lets the air out on her anger. Just a little bit. Just enough.

Enough time for Mom to walk over to her. "Rachel, listen to me," she says. "This is all very complicated." (_saying it twice doesn't make it any more true, Mom_). "You just need to calm down and give us a chance." Rachel stares at her mother, challenging her to say more. Come on, Mom, out with it. What's this "complicated" business? The crutch you're so clearly falling back on as an excuse to let your husband cat around? Mom just stares back. Well, shit. Does Rachel really think she's going to stare Mom into spilling the beans? No she does not. Fine. FINE! She crosses her arms, closing herself off. Mom looks kind of sad, maybe, and Rachel feels bad, uncrosses her arms and shoves her hands in her jeans pockets.

Mom looks over to Jimmy now. He kind of moves his head out of her way. Jimmy got decked in the face playing hockey a week or so back, but Mom must not have seen him since then. "What happened to your face, Jimmy?" she asks, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek. He jerks away. "Hockey. Don't try to change the subject, Mom." _Yay. Good for you, Jimmy_, Rachel thinks. THANK GOD HE'S HERE.

Dad walks over to them now, but Rachel just glares at him. He's got a lot of explaining to do. A LOT.

Rachel hears, "I think I should go," almost in a whisper, and she looks over to this girl. This chick Jimmy's been dating. This woman who Dad won't say in a simple yes or no whether he had sex with her._ Hell, yes, you should go. Get the hell out of my parents' house and leave my brother alone you little hussy_. Jimmy acts like he's going to drive her home.

Mom puts the kibosh on that. "Not on your life, mister," she says.

"I can call a cab," says the plane crash girl. _Yeah, why don't you do that?_

"You want to take her, James?" Mom asks Dad. _Hey, why don't you bang her again, Dad? Mom seems to think it's all fine and dandy, so yeah, go have a blast._

She says, "Real smart, Mom. Send him off for a little alone time with _her_. Don't you have any pride? God. I feel like I don't even know who you are."

Dad asks if she's sure, and Mom actually says "These two can cool their heels for a little bit." Right. _Right._ Like Rachel and Jimmy are being the unreasonable ones here. Jesus. What is going on? Who are these people?

She might actually have said some of that aloud because Mom says, "Just cool it, Rachel. Get a grip, and when Dad gets back, we'll tell you everything you want to know."

Dad leans in to kiss Mom on the forehead. Nice try, guys. So lovey dovey. Right. And Dad sleeps with a girl half his age just because he can.

Whatserface comes over now to say bye to Jimmy. _Bye and good riddance, thank you very much, leave my family alone, OK? _And, oh, what's this now? She takes off her sweatshirt (JIMMY'S sweatshirt) and, oh how nice, all kitted out in her little black dress. Hussy.

"Keep the jacket," Jimmy says to her. That's my boy. Stand up for yourself, little man. Kate takes Jimmy's jacket back and mumbles something to him. He mumbles back. God. This whole thing is weird enough, what must Jimmy think? How dare she? How _dare _she do Jimmy like this? He's a good guy, and doesn't deserve this shit. And he's all grown up, but Rachel remembers getting him a place on the bus when he was in first grade and she was in third, and teaching him to stand up for himself.

That's it. If no one else is going to give this chick a piece of mind, Rachel will do it. "I'll let you know if I ever have a son. You can fuck him, too." Guess what? She's not even speaking hypothetically (do NOT say anything, Jimmy).

"_That's enough_, Rachel!" Mom barks. "James," she says to Dad.

"Yeah, let's go, Freckles," Dad says. Rachel just stares at him. Freckles? _Freckles?_ He's got a cute little nickname for her? Oh for crying out loud.

"I'm so, so sorry," Kate whispers. "I didn't know he was your dad."

_Oh. Puh-leez. I wasn't born yesterday, you know. _"Yeah, I can see how it would be tough to make the astounding leap of logic that Jimmy LaFleur is Jim LaFleur's son."

Mom and Dad and the hussy huddle at the door mumbling amongst themselves. Then Dad and Kate are gone, and Mom says, "I'm going upstairs. Make yourselves comfortable. When your father gets back, we'll have a nice, long chat." Then she just leaves, Jimmy and Rachel staring at each other with their mouths hanging wide open. They hear the garage door open, a car start up, the garage door close again.

Jimmy and Rachel haven't moved, haven't said a word. They stare at each other, and Jimmy blinks first. Jimmy. Blinks. First. That's never happened before. "What the fuck is going on?" he says. Rachel is speechless. Rachel. Is. Speechless. That's never happened before. She comes over to sit by him at the island counter. Then they just wait like that in complete, still silence. Tick tock tick tock tick tock, the kitchen clock marks time.

Time seems to stand still as they wait, stuck in this utterly weird insane moment. Stuck. Stuck waiting while the clock ticks away the time. After Jimmy's "what the fuck is going on?" not a word has been spoken. Rachel finally says, "Why would _anyone_ want to sleep with Dad?"

Who knows how much time goes by before they hear the garage door opening.

They hear Mom coming down the steps. She gets to the kitchen about the same time Dad comes in the side door. Mom puts a laptop down on the counter. She and Dad stare at each other for a little bit. Getting their stories straight, presumably.

"OK," Mom says to him, like they just got it all talked out. Except they didn't say anything.

Dad turns to them now. "First thing you gotta know is the Oceanic 6? That was all pretty much a lie."


	25. What Happened, Pt 5

**OK, I totally, totally promise I'm not doing this to be cruel or stick rigidly to "The Format." There is a VERY IMPORTANT reason it's taken so long to get to the chapter where they tell the kids the truth. That very important reason? Uh, I haven't figured out how to do it.**

**I've known since about Chapter 2 that there would be a "truth comes out" chapter. And yet . . . I'm still a wee bit stumped. I don't want it to be "James and Juliet recap the plot to LOST," since we all know what happened, and that would be boring. So, there's that. Plus, I haven't settled on how everyone is going to deal with it, how much to tell, how much to believe, etc. At least half of these flashback chapters have been nothing more than buying time while I try to figure it out. So, patience. I want to get it right! I am working on it, though!**

**But I do promise, I swear, the next "present day" chapter WILL be the one it seems everyone is waiting for, OK?**

**And with that stirring introduction, here's the flashback no one seems to want!**

* * *

_**The Island, July through December 1977**_

The first two weeks really aren't that bad. Well, physically, they basically suck ass. Back-breaking work at the Swan Site from 6 AM to 8 PM every day (except every fourth day, when James also gets the night shift). The good news is he's too exhausted to dwell on the fact that communications with the mainland are cut off. Too exhausted to care that he's basically a worker bee now.

No one's said anything, and his jumpsuit still says "Head of Security," but that's pretty much over now. The brain trust is Horace, Radzinsky, and Chang, and they don't include him in their pow wows. No one's blamed him, no one's reamed him out, but the Dharma Initiative WAS infiltrated on his watch.

After two weeks, the site is cleared, and everyone kind of wonders what's next. That crazy light shit keeps happening every 108 minutes. There's no outside comms. They're stuck. Riding a van out to the site one day, James says, "Maybe you guys could set up some kind of computer system to keep that energy in check. Someone push a button every 108 minutes."

Radzinsky stares at him, mouth hanging open. "Holy shit. That's a good idea."

It's what Radzinksy's squad is working on now._ You're welcome, Jack. You're welcome, Locke. Have fun arguing about that a few decades from now._

So, until the computer system gets set up, the rest of them have time, time, time on their hands. James chooses to lock himself in his (their) house and drink. And drink. And listen to his Iggy and the Stooges album. And drink some more. He hears a pounding on his door, chooses to ignore it. Next thing he knows, Miles is standing in front of him.

"How the fuck'd you get in here?" he slurs.

"Key," Miles holds it up. James squints, the key coming into and out of focus. Where did Miles get a key? As if reading his mind, Miles says, "Juliet gave it to me a few months back."

"Yeah, well, she ain't here, so why don't you give it to me."

Miles pockets the key. He falls back onto the couch, next to James. "Watcha drinking?" he asks.

James ignores the question, takes another swig of whiskey. "Whattaya want, Enos?"

"She's OK, you know." Miles says.

"I didn't fuckin' ask." Doesn't want to fucking talk about it, OK? He's pretty sure she got on the sub. Her name was checked on the muster list, after all. And her note said she was getting on the sub. Ergo, she got on the sub. She's not the type to say she's doing one thing, then go off and do another without telling anyone. She's not Kate. So, she got on the sub, which is the goddamn problem, because who the fuck knows if it even made it back safe or not.

"'Cause I'm here, you know," Miles says.

"World's worst trade ever. And, besides, so what?"

"I mean, I was on that sub, right? Me and my mom. If anything happened to it, I wouldn't be here now, would I?"

James snorts. Miles is right. Huh. No way James is gonna admit it, though. Instead, as a peace offering, he passes his bottle over to Miles. Miles drinks.

James says, "Well, good for her, then. Finally made it offa this place. Good for her." He sighs. Six years she was stuck here. Stuck with him for three of them. He should be happy for her, but he's not. Not totally. He wonders if he'll ever see her again. Why in the world would she stick around waiting to come back to the Island? No fucking way she'll ever be back. And if there was some way offa here, he'd get off, first thing, but it's been two weeks. The longer he's stuck here, the better the chance she'll be gone who knows where.

They drink for two days straight. They wonder about Jin. Hurley. Jack. Sayid. And Juliet. Fucking Christ, how is he supposed to think about anything else? He threw out some stanky casserole from the fridge yesterday. Something she made. It's been more than two weeks now and still she is _everywhere_. Her smell is fading, though, and it makes him sick.

When they run out of booze, James sleeps. And when he wakes up, he decides to get his act together. He helps out with random Dharma odd jobs. He reads again every night. The computer system gets set up. Construction starts again. He works.

He straightens his (their) house. He dumps the contents of the laundry hamper into a bag and takes it over to the Dharma Laundromat. He separates whites and darks. How is he supposed to think of anything but her? Here's her purple shirt, her blue t-shirt. Jesus. She _just _wore these. They haven't even been washed yet. How can she be gone?

He cleans, he dries, he folds. He neatly folds and stacks her panties. He thinks of the turn-on that was the first time he got laundry duty. At some point, it just became laundry, no different really than socks. He stops at the black lace ones, though, because that was what she was wearing the night after Amy's baby was born, which had been the last night that . . .

NO. He can't do this here. He saves those kinds of memories for, well, when he gets particularly . . . erm . . lonely; uses those memories for inspiration. Like the first time he made her come, and the pleasant surprise at how wonderfully, marvelously easy it had been. He knows now the moment is imminent when her forehead starts furrowing up, and it's somehow totally cute and amazingly sexy all at once.

Or the first time she saw him naked, looked down at him, "Oh! Oh. Wow," she said, then looked him right in the eyes. He'd _never _forget that.

Another go-to is the first time she gave him a blow job. Sitting on the couch, reading, and she slammed her book shut. "Hell, I'm bored," she said.

He looked at her over the rim of his glasses. The book he'd been reading was actually pretty good. "Sorry to hear it," he said, returning his attention to his book. And then before he knew what was going on, she was kneeling between his legs, and OH SWEET HEAVEN. If he remembers correctly, that first time was also the time Horace came pounding on the door about halfway through, and James managed to grit out some lame excuse as to why neither of them was coming (to the door).

He wonders how many times over the next two years they'd be sitting reading, and he'd ask her, "Hey, any chance you're bored?"

More often than not, the answer was a steely glare and a flat-out "no," sometimes a "don't you wish," but every so often a "you know . . .I think I _am _kind of bored."

THAT . . . THAT is the sort of thing he thinks about late at night, or yes, OK, FINE, in the shower, but NOT, NOT, NOT here in the Dharma Laundromat. But he's got the black panties, and thinks again about that night. The last time. If he'd only known, dammit. That whole crazy day starting so damn early with drunk-ass Horace. And there was just something different about it that last time, she was so happy, so relieved . . .

He screws his eyes shut, shoves her neatly folded clothes into his laundry bag. She'll want these when he sees her again. For when she comes back (ha ha HA. Of course she's NEVER coming back, but pretending will keep him sane). Or for when he gets off of here (ha ha HA. Like she's just gonna be waiting around for _him_, but pretending will keep him sane). Whenever that happens, she's gonna want her favorite purple shirt, and this pair of jeans with the fraying hems. He'll have them ready and clean for her.

And while he finishes folding his own laundry, he's not gonna think of the things he saves for private time. And he's not gonna think of the things he saves for drinking time (the first time she cried in front of him, the first time he told her he loved her, the first time she told him she loved him . . .). He'll think instead of all the normal, fun stuff he likes to remember.

Six weeks ago cleaning out their closet. Her holding out a beat-up hockey puck. "Why do we even have this?" And for the life of him, he couldn't remember.

Playing Pictionary. Her little sketches always so neat and precise, and, well . . . pretty damn good. "Think ya missed your calling, Blondie," he'd always say.

Working on a crossword in bed on a lazy Sunday morning.

That day a few months back when she came out to put gas in his Jeep. You'd think he'd save this memory for his private moments, not here in the Laundromat, but that part? The sex part? Sure, it was kind of adventurous and spontaneous, but, honestly? Uncomfortable. Un-freaking-comfortable, with his foot jammed up against the Jeep headlight, his right knee pressed into the grill, his quads totally strained.

Sex on the hood of a car? Mark it off his lifetime to-do list, never to be attempted again. Seriously, he'd ended up paying for that little tryst for a few days at least.

Instead, he likes to remember after. After they collected themselves, got dressed. The day was unbelievably gorgeous, no humidity. Juliet said she didn't care to head right back to the garage, so they sat in the Jeep, him in the driver's seat, her in the passenger's, doors open, legs propped up on the open windows. They sat in silence, passing a canteen of water back and forth. God, it had been a gorgeous day.

Out of nowhere, she broke the silence with, "Ever notice how some Muppets are on _Sesame Street_, some are on _The Muppet Show_, but only Kermit is on both?"

Uh, what? Huh? He said, "I just fucked you on the hood of a Jeep, and you're thinkin' about the Muppets?"

He watched her jaw tense, her lips purse. She _hated _when he used that verb in its correct context. But what the hell else you gonna call what they just did?

Her words clipped with tight precision, she answered, "If it is any consolation, I was not thinking about the Muppets _while _you were fucking me on the hood of the Jeep." She spit out the last part of the sentence. Uh huh. And ha ha. God, he loved getting under her skin.

"No offense meant, sweetheart, but what would you call that?"

She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, blinked a few times, glared. No answer. Yep, thought so. And he laughed, loving pissing her off like that. She took a breath and said, "Seriously. Next time you watch, you'll see. Kermit's the only one on both."

"Rolf the Dog?"

"_Muppet Show_ only."

"I'm gonna have to take your word for it, then."

She said, "There's a rumor Stuart is pulling _The Muppet Show _in at the Flame."

"I think I'd rather stick hot pokers in my eyes than spend my free time at the Flame watchin' the Muppets with that freak show. And, listen, if we ever get offa here? Trust me, watchin' _Sesame Street_ ain't on my agenda."

"Fair enough," she said.

"Now, _The Muppet Movie_," he said. "I loved that when I was a kid."

"Wait a few more years, you may be able to see it again."

Fucking time travel.

They sat for a while longer. Until she said, "They'll probably send out a search party if I'm not back soon." She got out of the Jeep and closed the passenger side door behind her. She stuck her head back in and held out her right hand. He shook it. She said, "On behalf of the Dharma Initiative Motor Pool, it has been a pleasure servicing you today."

He laughed. "And vice versa." Sort of a pleasure. Shit, his quads burned. Goddamn, ten minutes of sex on a Jeep, and he was gonna be uncomfortable for freaking _days_.

* * *

"If I knew you were gonna be doing laundry, I'd of gotten you to do mine, too." Miles interrupts his memory.

That's right. She's gone. Gone, gone, gone, and he's in the Laundromat.

"Maybe next time, Miles."

Miles blinks in surprise. He was probably expecting some smart ass, grumbled reply. _Sorry to disappoint, buddy._

He goes back to his (their; shit, _his_) house, and puts away the laundry. He gets a beer from the fridge. Dharma Initiative shit beer. Still, it's beer. He drinks.

Some time later, there's pounding on the door. It's Miles. "Did you hear? Radzinsky made a connection with Ann Arbor."

As it turns out, all they know is the sub made it back safely (and Miles and James had that part figured out already). It's hope, though. Hope that dwindles through September as the communication system fizzles out again and again.

In late September the announcement comes: food rationing. Teams are assigned to hunt and gather in the jungle (James does not volunteer, sticks with the Swan construction site). Heavy labor on a half-empty stomach. Potato chips are all gone, and he had no idea it was possible to want potato chips so bad. Salty, crunchy, greasy. It's all he can think about while pouring concrete, knowing lunch is gonna be boar and mangoes (welcome to the future).

* * *

By November, they've run out of more than just chips. A short list of things James would probably give his right ear for: individually wrapped sliced American cheese, oatmeal, peanut butter, beer, an ice cream sandwich. This morning, he got to the cafeteria only to find out the last bowl of Dharma flakes had just been eaten. For the first time in weeks he remembers the stupid Fruit Loops conversation. Oh, weren't they living large back then with their Dharma O's and flakes and Chex. Now it's toast with a thin swipe of jelly. _Blondie, I hope they got Fruit Loops wherever you are, because they got jack shit here._

Earlier in the week, he went to the machine shop, grabbed an awl and punched another hole in his belt. His clothes don't even fit right any more.

So, he sits here on the fucking dock, hungry, tired, lonely, feeling sorry for himself. This was a lot easier after the plane crash. When he didn't have to work all day. When he didn't have anywhere else he wanted to be (anyone else he wanted to be with). He watches the light sparkle off the bay. Middle of November and it's still more than 80 degrees. That's probably something he shouldn't complain about.

He hears footsteps, knows it's Miles even before Miles says, "Please don't tell me you've thrown it in the drink."

James shakes his head, holds up the ring.

"You're excused from your deadline," Miles declares.

James looks up at him. Lots of gray in Miles' hair. He watches Miles hitch up his pants. Miles needs to make a trip to the machine shop to tighten up his belt.

James got the ring on a Thursday in May. He was gonna ask that weekend, but then he decided he needed more than 48 hours to come up with the appropriate proposal scheme. Miles rolled his eyes when he found out, but James was gonna do something special for their two-year anniversary in June.

In June, he got home early, made dinner (women dig it when you cook for them, and James has this go-to baked ziti recipe). Then he waited. And waited. And waited. It wasn't unheard of for her to get held up at work, so he waited. She came home with her left hand wrapped in thick gauze.

"Don't worry," she said. "X-rays were negative. Smashed it in a van door."

Well, shit. He wasn't gonna give her a ring she couldn't wear. Besides, in July, it was the three-year anniversary of their stay in Dharmaville. He could wait. Or, shit, her birthday . . .

When Miles found out, he did more than roll his eyes. He stuck his hands in his armpits, flapped his elbows "Bok! Bok! BWAK!" he squawked like a chicken. "Just keep putting it off, LaFleur. Isn't her birthday in November or something?"

"Yeah."

"Let's make a deal: give it to her by her birthday, or throw it in the bay."

"Deal."

Now, here it is her birthday, and here's the ring. James is fighting tears. "I shoulda given it to her," he says, kicking himself for being too scared.

"What difference would it make? She'd still be gone, wouldn't she?"

"Yeah, well." He's worried she's really gone. She does know how much he loves her, right? That's what he worries about. He's worried she's moved on with her 1977 life. Plus, "At least she'd have somethin' to remember me by."

Miles chooses not to argue with that. "How old is she today?"

"Ain't polite to ask a lady's age, Miles." Miles nods. "Thirty-six," James finishes.

"Well, that's not a big one. No big ones until 40. You got four years, then, though . . . Big 4-0. Gotta do that one up right."

"OK, sure." James doesn't have a lot of confidence he'll ever see her again, much less four years from now, but Miles seems to, so . . . OK. OK. Maybe Miles is right. He's more objective, at least. "What do you think she's doin' tonight?"

"Getting wasted? Getting laid?"

"Not funny, Miles. Ain't in the mood."

"What? You hope she's just sitting around, lonely and mooning over you?"

"All right. I'll go for gettin' wasted then. Party with the Dharma ladies." _Please_. Please. Please. Still be affiliated with this ridiculous hippy outfit.

"New deadline," Miles declares, pointing at the ring. "You've got 48 hours. When you see her next, you got 48 hours."

"Deal."

In honor of Juliet's 36th birthday, Miles and James finish the bottle of rum they've been saving for a special occasion. It's the last of the booze. Add that to the list of things James would potentially kill for.

* * *

December 8, and someone is pounding on James' door way too early in the morning. Of course it's Miles. It better be. No one else is welcome to pound on his door any damn time of day or night. Miles ain't welcome to, either, come to think of it. He swings open the front door. There stands Miles, crunch, crunch, crunching on something, his hand deep into a bag of Dharma chips.

"These are for you," he says through a mouthful of chips, handing over the bag. James stares in disbelief. "Sub came in last night," Miles clarifies.

"What?" James exclaims. Who's on it? Could . . . no. No way. No way, although . . .

Miles, reading his mind, shakes his head. "Just the crew. Horace pulled them all aside for a little tête-à-tête. Said he'd fill the rest of us in later this morning."

Sure enough, Horace calls them all together for an update. "The good news is, we've got a fresh supply of food." Lots of clapping, random whooping. Horace holds out his hands, palms down, urging quiet. "We'll still have to stay on rationing, though. No telling when we'll get another. Captain Bird?"

The captain speaks. "We dropped everyone off safe and sound back in July. As far as we know, they're all doing just fine."

"As far as you know?" someone shouts from the crowd.

"They're in Ann Arbor and we're . . . well, we're not. I've heard that most of them have left, moved on, or back to their old lives." Miles and James exchange a look. No way Juliet has moved back to her "old life," but moving on? Sure, sure she could have done that.

The captain continues, "I think there are thirty or so hard-core believers in the Initiative still doing good work in Ann Arbor." Another shared look. Shit, Juliet's no hard-core believer.

"You got any messages from any of them, at least?" It's Mack, Juliet's old boss.

"Sorry," the captain winces. "Sometime back in August, Dr. DeGroot gave me the green light. Said if a window to get here ever opened up, I needed to take it. I gave him about a four-hour notice for this trip. No time for any messages or anything."

Now there's all sorts of mumbling and grumbling. The food will be nice, but, shit, really? They've been stuck here for more than four damn months, and this is all they're getting? "This is horeshit!" someone shouts.

Horace steps up again. Again holds out his hands, palms down, this time urging calm. "I know it's not ideal," he says. "But it's a start. We're going to be on the lookout for another window to get the sub back. Things are getting better, even if it doesn't seem like it now."

Uh huh, whatever you say, bossman.

_Except, you know what? He's right_, James thinks later that night. James was able to finagle himself a six-pack of beer (hasn't lost a step in the hoarding department, thank you!), and he sits on_ his_ sofa in _his_ house with _his_ boots propped up on _his _furniture, and he drinks. He eats chips, crumbs spilling everywhere, and Horace is fucking right. It_ is _getting better. He's got beer. He's got chips. What the fuck else does anyone want or need anyway? This is the fucking goddamn life, and all he's ever wanted or needed in the world.

Fuck you, Juliet, off wherever it is you've decided to go to get on with life. Go ahead, send a fucking postcard when you get a chance. I'll be right here, thank you very much, and don't have to listen to anyone complain about feet on the furniture, CLOP (left foot), CLOP (right foot) . . . TAKE THAT! Good fucking riddance!

A week later, rumor comes that a window's opening. The sub's leaving in 12 hours.

James packs in haste. What was that? What was he going on about good riddance and fuck you and send a postcard? That was nearly 6 beers on a nearly empty stomach and down at LEAST 10 pounds besides. That was . . . well, good thing Miles didn't hear any of it, because he'd be crowing now.

James stuffs his duffle with jeans and shirts, shoes, socks, boxers, one jumpsuit, cause you just never know, a few books. With the room left over, he packs in a pair of jeans for Juliet, her favorite purple top, a skirt, a dress he always really liked. Hell, she's been gone nearly half a year, probably got herself a whole new wardrobe by now, but, damn, this dress always looked good on her. He'll sweet talk her into wearing it first time he sees her. And he ignores the side of his brain telling him that is Not Going To Happen, because really, she's not there anymore, is she? And if she's gone, how hard is he going to try to track her down? And maybe she doesn't want him to track her down. And it's just so much easier to imagine sweet talking her into wearing the dress, because that, yes, that he can do. Yes he can.

He pries up the floorboards by the bed. Pulls up the ring and puts it in the duffle. He leaves their house behind. He picks up Miles.

They walk down the dock together, into the slanting afternoon sun. "Sure we're doing the right thing, Boss?" Miles asks. No, no he's not, but he doesn't say anything. Miles keeps up with the nervous chatter. "Cause, it's 1977 out there. What the hell are we gonna do?"

James actually has this one halfway figured out. "We'll buy Microsoft."

"Excuse me?" Miles asks.

"Then we'll bet the Cowboys in the '78 Super Bowl. We're gonna be rich."

Miles laughs, grins big. "Right on, partner."

They hop into the sub. They get bunks, drink up their sedative. About 15 other guys are making the trip with them. Here we go . . . James uses his duffle for a pillow, aaaaaaaaannnnnd . . . he's out.

He comes to with Miles shaking his shoulder. Where the fuck? He squints, opens his eyes slowly. Are they on a bus? "Think we're here," Miles whispers to him.

"Welcome to Ann Arbor!" a booming voice from some fat, bearded bozo at the front of the bus. "I'm Dr. Gerald DeGroot. We've got a little Dharma office set up right here," he gestures to a nondescript building on the right side of the bus. James ducks his head, looks out the dingy window. "We've kept your arrival a bit hush-hush, as we weren't sure you'd actually make it. But here you are! We'll take you right inside and get you processed into the Dharma Mainland Branch."

Everyone stands up and grabs their things. James hoists his duffle over his shoulder.

They walk into the office building, just a huge room, a warren of shoulder high cubicles, a happy, busy buzz of activity.

James glances up at a sign, "LAST CONTACT WITH ISLAND: 134 days." Well, that's a cheery thing to spend your days lookin' at. Stupid Dharma fucks, he sneers at the sign, mentally flipping it the bird.

DeGroot, misinterpreting his look, explains, "We didn't count that 2-minute affair in September."

Miles has wandered off. People at the front of the room are starting to notice their arrival. Where did Miles get to?

And please. Please. Please. Please. Please.

He almost can't stand it.

**Another cliff hanger. Maybe that was cruel. And the next 1977 chapter won't even be the reunion (sorry!). We have to find out what Juliet's been up to for the fall. Like, what DID she do for her birthday? Hint: didn't get laid. Hint: didn't get wasted. Hint: didn't sit around her apartment feeling sorry for herself.**


	26. Miles and the LaFleurs: Thanksgiving

**OK, yes. This chapter, placed where it is, given the content, is cruel. Mea culpa. But I had it practically written already, so quick update, yay! (also it's just how the story goes, details from last chapter in this one, details from this one in the next, y' know). Plus, y'all knew this was gonna happen, so it's not like any sort of surprise or anything. **

* * *

_**November 26, 1981, 3:17 AM**_

The ringing phone wakes him from a deep, deep sleep.

"Hello?" he croaks.

"Miles. I need you to come over here right now." Rushed, urgent. He'd know that voice anywhere.

Miles is on autopilot. He's got this down. "Sure thing, boss. On my way." He hangs up. Where did he leave his walkie? Shit. Seriously. When did he have it last? He gets out of bed. Well, at least he always keeps a jumpsuit at the foot of the bed. Wait. No jumpsuit there. What?

Standing in his bedroom, Miles laughs. Despite it all, so very thankful not to be on that damned rock anymore. He stares at the phone on the bedside table. That had been a dream, right? No way Jim would call him in the middle of the night for anything. It seemed so real, though.

He sits back down, tries to get his bearings. It's Thanksgiving. He's supposed to be over there in time for the Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV. And bring a pan of stuffing. And pumpkin pie. And apple, right? He didn't get the apple. Not that he had much notice. Juliet called over last night.

"Miles, if you've really got to have apple pie, then either make it yourself, or you need to go to an all-night grocery."

"What? We had a deal." He's particular about his Thanksgiving traditions. You need apple and pumpkin pie both, and he agreed to make one if she'd make the other (they've been doing this for eight Thanksgivings now, you'd think she'd have it figured out).

"I'm calling you now to say I'm backing out of the deal. If you want an apple pie, get it yourself."

"That's the holiday spirit!" he snarked.

"Miles, just . . . leave it alone, OK? I . . ."

"You what?"_ I'd like to hear what FANTASTIC excuse you have for backing out on our family tradition. _

He swears he hears her grit her teeth at him. "I. . . " more teeth gritting. Jesus, she's _pissed_ at him. What did he ever do to her? ". . . just don't feel that great, OK?"

* * *

Oh, Miles is fully awake now. OHSHIT. OHSHIT. That phone call was real, wasn't it? The apple pie one, yes, of course, but the "come over here right now" one, too. SHIT SHIT SHIT. He grabs the jeans wadded up on the floor, shimmies in. Throws on a sweatshirt, grabs his coat, his keys, and is out the door.

It's normally five minutes to their place, but he makes it in under three. No point in stopping at lights or going the speed limit. It's not even 3:30 on Thanksgiving morning. No cops are gonna stop him.

He sees flashing lights at their place. An ambulance. SHITSHITSHITSHIT. His armpits are cold and damp, pumping out adrenaline-fueled sweat. It pops up on his brow, too, even though it can't be more than 35 degrees out here. Even so, he flies out of the car, race-walks across the front lawn, hops up onto the porch. There's a paramedic there. He nods at Miles. Looks kind of familiar. Maybe from that campus emergency drill back in the summer.

"This your buddy?" the EMT says to the open front door. Miles peers inside. Jim just nods. "All right, then," says the medic. "You can hop on with us."

Will someone explain what's going on?

"Stay here with the kids, Miles. They're asleep," Jim says.

Miles gulps, nods. Then here come two more EMTs with a stretcher. Juliet pale, eyelids fluttering. Kinda out of it. She's saying something, barely above a whisper. She's asking about Rachel.

"Miles is here, sweetheart. He's gonna stay with her. She'll be OK." And Juliet is shaking her head, almost imperceptibly. "No, no," he hears her say.

And they're out the door, and just gone. Miles watches the ambulance back out the driveway and down the street. He hears the sirens a few minutes later, after the ambulance gets out of the neighborhood.

He goes inside. The house is so quiet. There's a plastic crashing sound from the kitchen. Ice machine dumping ice in the freezer. It's so empty and quiet in here. He's never been here like this. It's always so loud in here. Even when it's actually quiet because someone's napping. Even when it's quiet it doesn't _feel_ quiet.

He sits on the couch. How is he supposed to just go back to sleep? He can still feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Jesus. Oh, please. He actually says a prayer. Not his thing, but it can't hurt, right? He'll just lie here until something happens. He pushes a couple of books to the floor, puts his head back on the cushion, tries to stop all the feverish hell scenarios playing in his brain. No way he's going to sleep.

* * *

"Where's Mama and Daddy?"

Miles cracks his eyes open. Funny thing is, he's not disoriented. He knows right where he is – the LaFleurs' couch; and why – he's supposed to watch the kids. Only thing he's not sure of is the time. Or what's actually happening down at the University Medical Center. He squints at his watch: 7:15. One question answered.

"Where's Mama and Daddy?" Rachel asks again. He sits up, rubs his temples. What's he supposed to tell her?

Maybe he won't lie, but, "They're out," he says.

She looks skeptical, narrowing her eyes, not buying it. Like father, like daughter. "Out where?" she challenges.

"They had to go to the doctor."

She ponders that. The answer must suffice, because she says, "You hafta get Jimmy outta his crib."

"OK," he says. That's something concrete. That's something he can do. He walks up the stairs, Rachel trailing at his heels. He peeks into Jimmy's room. Jimmy's sitting in his crib pushing a dump truck around, making 'vrrrooooom, vroooooom' sounds. He looks confused when he sees Miles, then smiles, drops the dump trucks, and holds out his arms. "Unca Mize!"

"Hey, bud." Miles lifts him out.

"You hafta change his diaper now," Rachel informs him.

"OK." He puts Jimmy on the changing table. How difficult can this be? Jim does this. Surely Miles can, too. And he does. He picks Jimmy up again.

"Now breakfast," Rachel says.

"OK."

They walk to the stairs. Rachel starts down, Jimmy starts wriggling in Miles' arms. "I wok! I wok! I wok!"

Rachel says, "He wants to walk down himself."

"OK." Miles sets him down, starts down the stairs.

"But you hafta hold his hand still."

"OK." Miles holds his hand, walks with the kids into the kitchen. Rachel goes to her seat. Miles hoists Jimmy into his booster. "What do you guys want for breakfast?"

"Can we have nest egg?" Rachel asks. Miles thinks that must be that thing Jim makes for them where he punches a hole in a piece of bread and cooks the egg in the hole. Too complicated. Instead, Miles opens the pantry, looks around.

"How about Fruit Loops?" he asks, pulling the box from the shelf.

Jimmy smiles real big, starts pounding on the table, shrieking happily.

"We aren't allowed to have Fruit Loops," Rachel informs him. And he appreciates her keeping him on track here, but he's also kind of tired of being told what to do by someone who isn't quite four.

"Well, today's a special day, and I say you _are_ allowed to have Fruit Loops," he says.

"Yay! Yay!" she sings it, claps her hands. Jimmy, playing along, does the same thing.

He pours a bowl for her, for himself, and sets a handful of dried Loops on Jimmy's tray. They eat for a while. Rachel asks for a second bowl, Jimmy gets another handful on his tray. Miles asks, "If you aren't allowed to have Fruit Loops, why do you have them?"

Rachel looks at him like he's an idiot. "Because you said we could."

Thank you, Miss Literal. "No. I mean, why is it in your house?"

Rachel shrugs. "Dunno. I think Mama said she really wanted Fruit Loops and Daddy went out one night an bought some."

"Oh." _Because he's her little bitch_, Miles thinks. Then feels guilty. Then hypocritical, because who was it who jumped up at 3 in the morning to come over here and sleep on the couch and change diapers and feed breakfast and babysit for who knows how long and shouldn't Jim have called by now?

Rachel asks for one more bowl. Jimmy gets another handful of dry cereal.

Fifteen minutes later, and Miles realizes why the "No Fruit Loops" Rule is in effect. Damn, but they're bouncing off the walls. Jimmy started crashing his construction trucks together, then into the wall, and now he's not doing much more than throwing diggers against the wall and squealing and clapping and shouting "boom!" Rachel, meanwhile, is bouncing on the couch. "Watch this, Uncle Miles! Watch how high I can jump." Miles wonders if her parents would let him live if she broke her arm on his watch. Today of all days. He spends what seems to be an eternity talking her down. Damn, when is that parade supposed to start?

The phone rings and he leaps to get it. But it's just old Mrs. Dawkins from down the street asking what all the commotion was last night, and Miles doesn't know what to tell her. "Juliet had to go to the hospital," and no, that's all he knows. No, he hasn't heard anything. No, he doesn't need anything.

CRASH! Jimmy and Rachel fighting over a toy xylophone. He hangs up with Mrs. Dawkins, bites the bullet and dials Claudia. He knows she's staying in town for the holiday.

After he says hello, she asks, "What do you want, Miles?," but not unkindly.

"Can you come over to the LaFleurs? I'm babysitting, and I'm starting to think I'm in over my head."

"Where are Jim and Juliet?"

"At the hospital. I'll explain later. Can you please come? I need help."

She shows up, says she can only stay till noon. He doesn't ask what other plans she has. First thing, she corrals the kids, bundles them up. Announces they are all going outside. Miles worries about the cold. "They're kids, Miles, not delicate flowers. Plus, the cold will wear them out even faster." Outside, she asks, "What's going on?"

"Did you know she is . . . was . . . I don't know. Did you know she's pregnant?"

"No one said anything to me, but, yeah, I kind of guessed."

He explains the middle-of-the-night call. The ambulance. And . . . that's all he knows. "I'm so scared, Claudia."

She reaches out to hold his hand. "It'll be OK, Miles. These things happen more than we'd like to think." She smiles at him. _Remind me again why we broke up_, thinks Miles.

Half an hour later, Claudia rounds everybody up. The phone is ringing when they walk in the house. Miles sprints to get it, heart in his throat.

"I'm here. I'm here. Hello?"

"Miles." (It's Jim. He doesn't need to introduce himself)

"Yeah, bro, what's going on? Is everything OK? Is she all right?" Miles realizes he better stop asking questions, give LaFleur a chance to answer.

"Yeah, she's gonna be OK."

Miles exhales. "Thank God. What about . . ."

"No," Jim barks/rasps at him, and Miles didn't even get to finish his question, but OK. He thinks it just got answered anyway.

"Sorry, man." What the fucking fuck fuck else is he supposed to say? Claudia is taking the kids' coats off, and she's looking at him, face full of concern. _What's going on?_ Her eyes say. How's he supposed to respond? Good? It's all good? Juliet's gonna be OK? But it's not all good, so, damn.

He returns his attention to the phone where LaFleur is saying "We'll be here just a bit longer. It's . . ." the phone cuts out, or Jim is having trouble with his voice or something. Cuts back in "she lost a lot of blood, so they just want to make sure. A few hours maybe. That OK?"

"God, yes. Yeah, yeah. Of course. Of course it's OK. I'll be here."

"OK, bye." And the phone clicks off.

The Thanksgiving Day Parade is wrapping up. They put the kids in front of the TV. Miles cuts up little pieces of cheese and apple to give them. He tells Claudia all Jim said. He finishes, and she says she'll go upstairs and "deal with things," and who knows what that means. He takes the snack into the kids. The parade's over, so he switches over to PBS, puts on _Sesame Street_. He turns to go upstairs and find out what Claudia's up to.

He's on the third step when Rachel says, "Daddy always watches _Sesame Street_ with me when he's home."

"OK," Miles says, and sits next to her on the couch. Jimmy's on her other side, his head leaning against her shoulder.

Claudia comes down with a garbage bag. Miles gets up. "Be back in a sec, OK, Rach?" he asks her permission.

In the kitchen, Claudia holds up the garbage bag. "Sheets in here," she says. "I remade their bed."

Oh God, Miles is gonna be sick. He is so so so so far in over his head. Why does he fucking care so much? Can't he go back to his place and pretend he doesn't care?

Claudia puts her hand on his shoulder. "It's going to be OK, Miles. They're going to be fine," like she knows the future or something. And Miles _does_ know the future, so how come this is so hard?

"God, Claudia. Thank you so much. I really . . . just, just thanks." Maybe he should ask her some more about her holiday plans. They only broke up a month ago. Why did they break up? What had he been thinking?

What had he been thinking? Oh, Claudia is going to demonstrate right now. She gestures toward the kids in front of the TV. "Reminds me of when I was a kid. Me? It was Howdy Doody. Couldn't pry my eyes from that. Mayor Phineas T. Bluster was my favorite. What about you?"

His favorite character on Howdy Doody? Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me? "Uhm. Howdy Doody?" he answers. Only character he's ever heard of. Maybe when Rachel and Jimmy grow up he can sit around with them and reminisce over their shared childhoods.

She smiles at his answer. He hopes Howdy Doody wasn't some kind of evil maniac or something. He was the main character, right? "OK," she says. "I need to get going, Miles. I'll take this to the trash on my way out. Call me later to let me know." She hugs him. She smells nice. She watched _Howdy Doody _as a kid. Technically, she's old enough to be his mother. Technically. Technically. Blah. As Juliet said when he complained about _just this_ the other day, "Technically, Miles, I am older than my _own_ mother." But what does she know? She and Jim don't have to lie about Howdy Doody to each other.

He watches _Sesame Street_. He feeds them lunch. He reads them books. He plays trucks with Jimmy. He looks at Rachel's scribbles. He puts Rachel in her room for nap. Jimmy screams from his crib for ten minutes. He brings him back downstairs. Jesus, this is Hard Fucking Work.

He sits on the couch with Jimmy. They watch football - the Cowboys and the Bears. Jimmy settles into his lap, and the next thing Miles knows, the front door is opening. Miles opens his eyes, and sees Jim come in.

"Hey," Miles whispers, keeping still, not wanting to wake Jimmy, still in his lap, with his head on Miles' shoulder.

Jim just nods at him, squats down to put his big hand on the back of Jimmy's blonde head. He plants a light kiss on the back of his son's head, and Miles heart hurts a little. He doesn't want to be here. He wants to be drinking beers and looking at the SI Swimsuit Issue. He wants Jim to give him a hard time about being a ghostbuster (which isn't even remotely what he does. . . did). He wants to do something that will piss Juliet off so she'll look at him hard enough to scare him. Speaking of . . .

"Where's Juliet?" he whispers.

"Car," Jim whispers back. "I just thought I'd come in, see what's goin' on here first."

The car? What car? They went in the ambulance.

"OK," Miles says. He doesn't want this. He doesn't do too-tender and sad and sentimental and dependable friend. He just doesn't. He _doesn't_.

He peers out the window. Squad car. OF COURSE, Jim talked someone into a ride.

Jim comes back minutes later with Juliet. She's on her feet, but so pale, her skin is practically see-through. Miles wiggles his fingers in a hello greeting, taking great care not to jostle Jimmy. Jim takes her upstairs, then comes back downstairs and takes Jimmy from Miles' lap. He sits with the boy in the recliner. Miles has never seen Jim cry. He got teary-eyed once or twice that fall when they were stuck back on the Island. He looks over now and it's the same look, but he can tell by the set of his jaw that Jim is working extra extra extra hard not to cry.

Rachel's awake not long after, and damn, but Jim puts on a great fucking show. He plays with the kids like everything is just fine and fucking dandy, and "Mama? She's just under the weather, sweetie pie. She'll be right as rain tomorrow, don't you worry 'bout nothin'." And anytime he thinks no one is looking, he looks like he's going to LOSE IT. He keeps telling Miles he can go home, but Miles is going to stick around to help. With entertaining them. Taking them outside again. Feeding them dinner. Putting them to bed.

Soon as the kids are asleep, Jim pulls a six pack from the fridge, sits on the sofa, hands a beer to Miles. Jim downs the first one in three gulps. He opens a second.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Miles asks.

Jim drinks deeply, sighs, and says, "She didn't feel so hot yesterday. Went to bed early. No big deal, ya know? So, I'm asleep, and having this shitstorm of a nightmare. Jesus. I can't even remember it clear. Like we were in a cave or something? Miles, she was bleeding everywhere. She _tasted _like blood. So, I wake up, and that feelin' of relief, like it's just a damn dream, ya know? But I just kind of reach over to hug her, cause I'm still freaked out. And when I do? Fuck, man. Fuck . . . blood everywhere."

He finishes his beer, cracks open a third. Miles watches warily. Should he tell him to take it easy? Slow down? Miles just is not cut out for this good friend business. Frankly, Jim isn't the kind of person it's easy to be a friend to anyway. Yeah, it's his fault. His fault.

"They wanted to do a transfusion. Said she'd recover a lot faster, but I said no."

"Because?"

"It's 1981, Miles. Do they even screen blood for HIV? Do they? Can ya tell me?" Miles shrugs. Damn. Damn, that was smart. "When she came to, they tattled on me, how I wouldn't authorize that. She caught on quick, though, no surprise. Then you know what she said?" He actually kind of laughs. "She said, 'Trust us, we're from the future.'"

Miles laughs, too. It used to happen all the time, their first months in 1974, one of them would slip and say something they shouldn't. Laugh about it later. _Trust us, we're from the future_. Old, old inside joke. Doesn't happen much anymore. Life's too busy, and they don't seem from the future as much as they used to.

"'Course, talk like that made 'em back off her pain meds. She was miserable."

"I'm sorry," Miles finally offers.

"You didn't cut her pain meds."

"No. Not about the pain meds. About . . . about all of it."

"It's not your fault," Jim says. _Well, of course it's not my fault, but that doesn't mean I'm not sorry_, and see? This is the kind of thing he'd tell Jim on any other day that's not today. "It's mine," Jim adds.

_What? How is any of this anyone's fault?_ Miles doesn't say.

"She was sittin' right there, right where you are now, listin' out all the reasons this was a bad idea. And I convinced her we should try. I made her try . . . and, fuck, I don't even know why anymore."

Miles doesn't know what to say.

"You should probably get home before it gets too late," Jim tells him. Clearly he's ready to have Miles gone.

Miles gets up to leave. He sets his half-drunk beer on the coffee table. Jim picks it up and downs it. Miles says, "I know you think you're a smooth talker. I know you think you got a special touch with women. Hate to bust your bubble, but do you think – honestly – that you've _ever _convinced her to do something she really didn't want to do?"

Jim just starts another beer.

Miles thinks again about how smart Jim was about the transfusion. How he could think clearly, make a decision like that, despite no sleep, despite despair, despite sorrow, despite doctors telling him he was wrong. "She's lucky to have you," he says. He tries to think of something rude and sarcastic to cut the sincerity level a bit, but he's plumb out of it now. "Probably good thing if you go up to her now," he suggests, starting to worry as Jim finishes yet another beer.

"Nah," Jim shakes his head. "She don't want me. Been askin' for her sister all day."

"Just 'cause she wants her sister, doesn't mean she doesn't want you, too." Hey, waddaya know? Maybe Miles actually _can_ do this kind of thing.

"Uh huh." Jim picks up the last can of beer. Miles is worried, but he doesn't know what to say or do. He's still learning all this, and Jim does NOT make it easy.

"Night, James," he says.

"Don't fuckin' call me that," he snarls at him.

Miles' best friend is a gigantic ass. Miles turns to leave.

"Hey, man," LaFleur calls. "Thank you. Thank you for bein' here. Thank you."

A part-time gigantic ass.

* * *

**And you know it all turns out OK, right? I don't mean in like 25 years, but in like 2 months (see chapter 17). **

**OK, good news: I've already started typing up the next chapter. **

**Anybody good with story summaries? I'm not sure what I've got now is quite right.**


	27. James and Juliet's Excellent Adventure

"First thing you gotta know is the Oceanic 6? That was all pretty much a lie."

Jimmy stares at his father. "OK?" he challenges. What's that got to do with anything? Dad nods at him, serious, looks over to Rachel, waiting for her permission to continue. She just raises her eyebrows, shakes her head. "All right?" she says.

Dad clears his throat. "That plane did crash, like they said it did. Only, it didn't crash in the ocean, it crashed on an island. And it wasn't just those six who survived. There were like fifty or so survivors." He looks at his children again, then says, "I was one of 'em."

Jimmy tucks in his chin, looks at Dad over the top of his glasses. _Really, Dad? Really?_

Dad keeps going. "The island we landed on – it was pretty kooky. We can tell y'all more about that later, if you want. I mean, just all sorts a weird stuff you wouldn't believe."

_Yeah,_ Jimmy thinks. _THAT I wouldn't believe._

"And there were already other people livin' there. Your mom was one of 'em."

Jimmy cuts his eyes over to Mom. She's leaning against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, but she nods, agreeing with Dad, when he mentions her.

Dad looks back over to Jimmy and Rachel, checking to see if they're following along. Which, yeah, sure, it's straightforward enough. Dad crashed on an island. Mom was living there. Uh huh. Nothing complicated about it all. It's absolutely BATSHIT INSANE, but it's not complicated.

Dad continues. "We were there a few months when this, uh, this . . . freighter came. We thought it was gonna rescue us, but it didn't work out that way. There were a bunch of people on there . . ."

Mom interrupts. "Your Uncle Miles was one of _them_."

_Hell, Mom, what did Uncle Miles ever do to you that you gotta drag him into this nonsense?_ Even if it is nearly Thanksgiving, which means Mom and Uncle Miles will get into it again about pies like they've done every Thanksgiving for as long as Jimmy can remember.

"That's right," Dad says, not about the annual pie dust-up. "Miles was on there. You know what? Even to this day, I ain't figured out exactly what happened, but the long and short of it is that those folks? The ones they call Oceanic Six? They did make it off, got rescued. Then the rest of us that was left behind? Well, we got sent back in time."

Dad stops there. Jimmy waits patiently for the punch line. When he realizes it's not coming, he goes ahead and laughs anyway.

"Dad," he says, shaking his head. "Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad." Talking to him like one of his 10th graders and _the dog ate my homework; our home computer has a virus; I left my notebook in my mom's car_. Talking to his own father like he's a fifteen-year-old kid. "Dad. She's hot, OK? I get it. Trust me," Jimmy puts his hand to his heart, "I get it. I guess you were hoping not to get caught, or who even knows. But you're caught, OK? So, spare us the bullshit and just have the balls to admit you slept with her." This is kind of thrilling and frightening - the freedom to talk to his father like this.

"All right," Dad says. He doesn't jump down his throat for disrespect, and Mom doesn't either, and that's disconcerting. It's like everything Jimmy's always been taught is not quite right. Dad can sleep around, and Jimmy can be disrespectful to his father. This isn't how things are done around here. Or is it?

"All right. Yeah, I slept with her. Well, not a lot a sleepin' goin' on, if you catch my drift." Dad winks. Jimmy hears Rachel snort in disgust, catches Mom rolling her eyes. Dad clears his throat. Realizes he needs to act serious about this. "But what I'm tellin' ya, is that for me, that was . . ." Dad rolls his eyes up in his head, calculating . . . "thirty four years ago. Long before you folks were even a twinkle in the eye."

Now Jimmy snorts in disgust. "Kate's not . . . she's not . . . not even . . ." Crap. Trouble getting this one out. "She's not even that old, Dad."

"Right. Time travel," Dad says.

Jimmy keeps sputtering. Rachel says, "Was there a DeLorean involved, Dad?" rolling her eyes.

Dad turns to Mom. "Wanna help me out here?" he says. "Do your portion?" Like they got this all worked out, roles to play, lines to recite.

Mom puts the laptop in front of Jimmy and Rachel. "Google Juliet Burke," she says.

Jimmy starts typing, Rachel peering over his right shoulder, Dad over his left. Both of them are too close, but since Dad is the one he's currently pissed at, he gives him the back-off side eye. Dad just stares back, doesn't move. Jimmy finishes typing, gets ready to click the search button.

"E," Dad says.

"What?"

"There's an 'e' on the end there. B-U-R-K-E."

Jimmy types the E, clicks search, but doesn't miss the look between Mom and Dad, like isn't it so funny Jimmy's ignorant on how to spell this chick's name.

He clicks the first result: "Missing Scientist Presumed Dead." He skims the news article that comes up. _Renowned fertility researcher _. . . _missing for six months_ . . .details her career, educational background, blah blah blah. He looks at Rachel. Maybe she's got this figured out. She looks as clueless as he feels.

"So?" Rachel asks Mom.

Mom grabs the computer, turns the screen to read. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Do an image search." She turns the computer back to them.

Jimmy types it in again, pushing the last "e" with a flourish and a pointed look at Dad. Click. Same article, "Missing Scientist Presumed Dead." Same thing, same words, same _Renowned fertility researcher, _except this one has a little picture. Professional portrait, head shot, white lab coat, and . . . Jimmy peers in closer, feels Rachel leaning on his shoulder to look, too.

"Who is she, Mom?" Rachel asks, because . .. because . . . Jimmy keeps looking. Does Mom have a long-lost niece or something? Who looks JUST LIKE MOM? Or like Mom did. Or like Mom did if she ever had really big hair?

Mom says slowly, "She is me."

Jimmy stops looking at the computer and stares at his mother. There's a part of him that can kind of imagine Dad thinking up this elaborate prank, but he can't quite imagine Mom going along with it. Except . . He shakes his head. "I don't . . . I don't. . . How?" He looks between his parents.

"I'm tellin' ya, son. Time travel."

Jimmy looks over to his sister, but she's turned the laptop to her now. She's scrolling. He can see her eyes darting left to right, up, down, reading the article. "Missing Scientist Presumed Dead."

Rachel reads, "You graduated from Coral Gables High School in 1989."

Mom nods.

"I tried to find . . ." Rachel trails off. "I called them, I. . ." She blinks extra hard, then turns her attention back to the article. "That's my name. My name. And Jimmy's."

Jimmy looks, and Rachel points out a part in the article. "Dr. Burke is survived by her sister, Rachel Carlson, of Miami." And yes, that is Jimmy's middle name.

"You told me that was your maiden name," Jimmy points out, because this whole thing is not true, and Jimmy's going to prove it, and this Missing Scientist Presumed Dead's last name is Burke.

"It was," Mom says. "Burke was my married name. I was divorced."

Jimmy laughs. Sure, OK, yeah. Mom has an ex-husband. Yep, sure. Yep, yep, yep. And a sister. Uh huh. And, oh yeah, she and Dad are Time Travelers. Okey Dokey. Let's all pass around the Wacky Weed.

Rachel's moved past that and says, "That's why Kate recognized you. From that picture. From more than 20 years ago."

Mom and Dad nod.

Jimmy says, "Hold up a sec, Rach. Are you telling me you're actually buying this bullshit? Seriously? Time travel? Really? You believe that?"

She's looking at the article again. "Well, I mean, I guess? Have you ever . . ." she trails off. "It just . . . it makes sense."

"No. No. No it does not make sense. OK, time travel? There's about a million reasons why it doesn't make sense. Who's the sci fi geek? Me, right? Trust me. First off, you can't go back in time, because if you mess with stuff, it will make the future go all loopy, OK?"

"Not if you were always there in the first place," Mom says.

Jimmy shakes his head. "OK, forget sci fi. Let's just talk science. The rest of you are just gonna have to trust me on this. I'm the one with a science degree, right?"

"Apparently not the only one," Rachel points to the computer screen, looks up at Mom. "Wow, Mom, you were some kind of genius."

Mom smiles. "I like to think that I'm still somewhat intelligent."

But there's something nagging at the back of Jimmy's brain. Something's not adding up. Well, aside from time travel. That doesn't add up in any universe Jimmy knows. But even if it did . . . even if the time travel was true . . . what is it? And why is Rachel buying this hook, line, and sinker? She's not that gullible is she? Pregnancy must make you stupid, and. . .there it is. There's what's been nagging.

Oh, hot damn. Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa. Oh God. Jimmy feels his stomach lurch just a little bit.

He only met him those few times in the dog park, but oh, oh, no way did he look like Kate. _Must look like his father_, Jimmy thought at the time. Straight blond hair and blue eyes, and if anything, he looks more like Jimmy than he does Kate. Jimmy even had this inkling that maybe _he_ looked like Aaron's dad, and OH, FUCK. They've got a little kid brother. Oh shit. _And Jimmy's met him._

"Dad?" he asks, and it comes out very warbly and weak. It comes out like _Jimmy _is a little kid.

Dad turns to look at him. "Yeah?"

Jimmy doesn't know how to ask. He's scared of the answer, and it comes out in a whisper almost, in a stammer, definitely. "Is he . . . is . . .Aaron. Is he your son?" He'd be Dad's first son. That sets Jimmy's world off its kilter as much as anything tonight. Except he doesn't believe it. Right? He doesn't believe this time travel story.

"No," Dad answers. "No, he's not." He looks Jimmy in the eye when he says it. Says it clear and straight, and . . . that's a relief. OK. Yeah, Aaron may look a little like Jimmy, but Jimmy looks like Mom more than he looks like Dad, so, yeah, OK. OK.

Jimmy thinks on that for a minute. Still doesn't add up, though . . . "Geez, Dad. Are you saying she was pregnant when you screwed her?" Gross and _weird_.

"No it's not that," Dad starts. He catches Jimmy's skeptical look, tries to explain further. "Now, back in the day, I was kinda a player, you know? But, never with that. Never had a thing for pregnant chicks."

"Could've fooled me." Mom, under her breath.

Maybe they weren't supposed to hear that, but almost involuntarily, Jimmy clamps his hands to his ears. "_Mom!_ God! _Ugh._ That's. . . . that's. . . Oh, God, that's a horrific mental image, thank you very much."

She at least has the decency to look chagrined, and Dad glosses over that with, "Aaron ain't Kate's son."

"Come again now?" Rachel pipes in.

"Aaron isn't Kate's son," Dad repeats. Everyone just sort of stands around in silence, so Dad keeps going. "His mom was a girl named Claire Littleton. You can probably look her up on the info about the plane crash. One day, she just kinda wandered off. Anyway, Kate an 'em made it off with Aaron, I guess just decided to pass him off as hers. We spent three years lookin' for that boy's mama, no luck."

"Whoa," Rachel exhales.

Jimmy feels sorry for Aaron, never knowing his own mom, but then again, from everything he can tell, Kate's so good to him. Maybe he's lucky to have her if he's not gonna have his own mom. Or . .. or, hell, the whole thing is so confusing. All of it.

"Kinda a relief, though," Rachel says, and Jimmy knows what she's thinking.

"No shit," he says. "A little brother? Your kid could play. . ." Damn. He doesn't miss the look his sister's giving him. He clams up right quick. Grimaces. Looks as apologetic as possible.

His parents miss all this. They're sharing their own private looks. Jimmy's mother, staring intently, _now might be the time to tell them_. His father, subtly shaking his head, _not ready for that yet_. Mom, head cocked to the side, pity in the eyes, _they have to know sometime._ Dad, head shaking more firmly now, _Not yet. They have too much to deal with already_.

Jimmy and Rachel miss all that, and Jimmy, anxious to cover his gaffe, says, "I'm still not buying it. Come on, guys . . . this is an elaborate joke, right?" The thing is, he kind of IS starting to buy it, but . . . but not quite. Time Travel?

Dad twists his wedding band, works it off his finger, and sets it down in front of them. "Pick it up, look inside," he says. Rachel does. Mom works off her own ring. Rachel peers inside Dad's ring, hands it over to Jimmy. She picks up Mom's ring now. Jimmy sets his glasses up on his forehead and squints at the inside of Dad's ring. It's engraved, tiny cursive print, worn down from over thirty years on Dad's hand.

_J.C.B. 11/17/71_

"OK?" Jimmy asks. "So?"

"That's your mom's real initials, real birthdate. When we . . . well, when we . . . uhm, got married, we just wanted to keep that part of our real selves, just a private thing, you know? Just to remember."

Jimmy's still staring at the inside of his father's ring.

Mom says, "Or, you can choose to believe we had that done thirty years ago on the off chance that one day we'd have a son who'd grow up to date a girl Dad slept with, and we needed to deploy a ridiculous time travel story. You know, just in case."

Rachel hands over Mom's ring. It's even more difficult to read, much smaller and narrower than Dad's band. Jimmy can't quite make anything out. Rachel, who has better eyes, says, "Dad, is your last name Ford?"

Jimmy can make it out now. _J.E.F._ And "Ford," that's Rachel's middle name, supposed to be named after their grandmother, which . . .kind of.

"That's right, Half Pint."

"Oh," she says. "So, what? Before the plane crash, you were like a cop or something?" Dad did campus security at Michigan before they got so lucky in the stock market (and, oh! OK, OK, Jimmy is really _really _starting to buy this time travel thing . . .).

Jimmy interrupts before Dad can answer Rachel's question. "That's how you made all this money isn't it? You knew what was gonna happen. Damn, the stock market must be pretty easy when you know the future."

Mom and Dad both nod, but Mom says, "It was actually a lot more work than you might imagine, but, yes . . . we were working on some insider knowledge, that's true."

Rachel goes back to her question. "So, Dad? Cop? Or, no, let me guess . . . FBI Agent? Secret Service?"

Dad actually looks sad. Mom comes to stand right behind him and rub his back. Jimmy starts to get worried. What is it?

Dad takes the computer. "My name was James Ford," he says. "Google it, and you'll get all sortsa results. You gotta add in some other search terms." He's typing in the Google Toolbar. He hits search, and _Missing Scientist Presumed Dead _is replaced with _Multiple Offender Pleads Guilty_.

Jimmy skims this article. Twice-convicted felon . . . lifetime of petty crime . . . Sentenced to nine years . . . There's a mug shot, and it looks just like Dad. Or like Dad did. Or like Dad did if he ever looked really really angry and mean.

He looks up at his father, and he can tell by the way Dad is looking at him, apologetic and hopeful and sad and scared. He can tell it's true. This, though. This isn't the man Jimmy knows. How? What?

Rachel makes a little squeaking sound, puts her fingers to her mouth. She says, "I . . . I . . . think I'm going to be sick."

Dad says, "Now let's not get too melodramatic," kind of jokey, kind of _please don't hate me._

"No. Really," she says, and flies off her barstool, dashes into the bathroom. Dad puts his head in his hands, and Jimmy kind of feels sorry for him. Mom is squeezing Dad's shoulders, right behind him.

They actually hear Rachel vomit. NASTY.

Dad looks like he's going to cry, and Jimmy feels like he needs to protect his father, tell him it's going to be OK. Rachel's not yakking JUST because Dad is (was?) Multiple Offender Pleads Guilty. So, Jimmy says, "Rachel's pregnant."

Dad looks up from his hands. He has this look of awe and amazement. Mom does, too, and Jimmy realizes, uh oh, they aren't looking at him, they are looking behind him, which means . . .

Rachel standing there, glaring at him. "Yeah, well, Jimmy spent a night in jail in college!"

_Oh she did not. She did not just say that._

Jimmy, loudly: "Rachel had sex with that stupid punk college boyfriend . . . on you guys' bed!"

_Ha, take that, big sis._

Rachel, almost shouting, "Jimmy got drunk and threw up . . ."

Mom interrupts. So quiet and calm, but powerful, and you can't help but listen. "I Tasered your father the first time we met." Rachel and Jimmy both shut up. "As long as we're sharing family secrets," Mom adds.

"What?" Jimmy asks, while Rachel blurts, "Why?"

Mom gestures to the computer screen. To the mug shot of the Multiple Offender. "Well, wouldn't you?"

Uhhhhhh . . . what?

"OK, seriously. My people didn't exactly treat his people all that well." Dad snorts, but Mom keeps plowing ahead. "And he was, well, he was trying to escape." Mouths drop open, eyes widen. "So, yeah. I just made sure he didn't. That's all."

That's all?

Rachel, quietly and tentatively, "You guys always said you met in the library. That wacky hippy outfit you joined. On . . . holy shit. . .on an island."

"Yeah, not _quite_ the truth," says Dad.

"Did you really work security for them, Dad?" Rachel asks. Dad nods. OK, that's something they've always known. Rachel turns to Mom. "And you fixed up VW buses?"

Mom nods. "Right. And Jeeps, too."

Jimmy winds up to ask Dad something about the island, but Rachel, head cocked to the side, says, "Hold on. Jeeps? Like. . . Does that have anything to do with Uncle Miles always giving me Jeep stuff?"

"Yep, that's it," Mom answers really fast. Too fast. Suspiciously fast. Also suspicious is that Dad simultaneously answers, "No."

"Not important," Mom waves her hands.

Rachel points to the computer screen. "You knew all this about him?" Mom nods. The article talks about how Dad seduced women, conned them out of money, and . . . and this is going to take some getting used to.

Rachel says to Mom, "How could you? If you knew all this – how could you trust him?"

Mom steps a little closer to Rachel, and she says, "I don't know. We got to be friends, and then sort of added . . . I mean, I thought it could just maybe be about. . ." she catches Jimmy getting ready to clamp his hands over his ears again. _Do not say it, Mom. Do NOT say it was just about sex_. "I thought we could just not get too involved. Keep it casual." She stops and looks around at all of them here in the kitchen. "Clearly, I didn't do the world's greatest job on the 'keep it casual' bit."

"Juliet," Dad says in a soft, almost tender voice. Mom turns to look at him, also tender. "Baby, God, I don't wanna hurt you or nothin', but . . . but if I've said somethin' or done somethin' these past thirty or so years . . . if I've given you the wrong impression . . . I kinda thought we were _still_ keepin' it casual."

He watches Dad grin a wicked grin, and Mom smiles back, first just the eyes, then a little smirk.

And just like that, the Earth sets itself back up on its axis. A little bit at least. This is all going to take a LOT of getting used to, but despite it all, the two people standing here right now are still Mom and Dad. And maybe Mom is the Missing Scientist Presumed Dead. But she's also the woman who read him the riot act anytime she had to make an extra trip when he left behind hockey gear. She's the woman who'd lie in bed with him at night when he was scared of ghosts. Dad? It's not gonna be nearly as easy to understand that he's the Multiple Offender Pleads Guilty. But he's still the same man who took Jimmy to his first Major League Baseball game, and cracked peanuts for him. He's still the guy who made sure they all ate dinner together, and rigidly enforced the No Phone Calls at Meal Time rule.

Maybe it doesn't matter who they used to be. Maybe what matters is who they are. Who they've been to Jimmy and Rachel. Maybe. It's gonna be all right. It will. It just . . . it'll take time.

Rachel's cell phone chirps, and she reads. "Anson's at the airport. He'll be home soon. I need to go."

Jimmy wonders what she'll tell him.

"Airport? Where's he been?" Dad asks.

"Ohio? Pennsylvania?" Rachel offers.

"He's been gone?"

"Yeah, Dad. Following the Biden campaign, remember? We talked about it at lunch a few weeks back."

"Who's been stayin' with you?"

Rachel looks confused. "Uhm. Jefferson?"

"The dog? Just you and the dog? You been all alone?"

"Dad. I'm thirty. I've lived alone most of my adult life. I'm pretty sure I've got it figured out."

"I just don't want anything to happen to you, sweetie pie," Dad looks kind of freaked out.

"Like?" Rachel looks over to Jimmy. _What's with Dad? _Jimmy shrugs. _Beats me._

"Just, in your condition . . ." Dad starts.

"In my condition?" Rachel repeats, eyes wide. "Dad, it's 2008. No one talks like that anymore. And I'm pregnant, OK? Not crippled."

"Yeah, well, I just. . ."

Mom steps in now. "It doesn't matter. Anson's home tonight, right?" Rachel nods. "All right, then. This is something we can all worry about later. OK?" Rachel nods again. Mom hugs her. "Oh, sweetie, congratulations. I'm happy for you." Rachel keeps nodding in Mom's hug.

Mom releases her, and Dad steps up for his hug, opens his arms. Rachel just kind of stands there. "Dad, I . . .I think I need some time, OK? I . . . that . . ." she waves back over at the laptop, at Dad's mug shot (weird, weird, weird, weird) . . . "that scares me a little bit." Is she scared because Dad was such a bastard to women? Or is it because her whole life people tell her she's just like Dad, and it turns out Dad is a criminal?

She addresses herself to Mom. "I still have a ton of questions."

"I'm sure you do," Mom says. "We'll get them all answered in time, I hope."

"OK," Rachel turns to leave. Turns back around. "Bye, Jimmy" she waves at him, and he waves back. She hesitates, steps forward, gives Dad a short, quick, stilted hug. "Love you, Dad," she mumbles.

Jimmy thinks Dad is going to cry. He's never seen his father cry.

"Lemme walk you to your car, Rach" Dad says. Rachel nods, and they leave.

Mom claps her hands together. "Well!"

Jimmy says, "I guess I should get home, too."

Mom points out the empty beer bottles. "Stay with us, Jimmy. I can get your old room ready."

Jimmy nods. Truth is, he doesn't want to go home alone tonight. Damn, and he thought he was gonna get laid . . .

Mom comes over, kisses his forehead. He actually leans into her a little bit. It's all gonna be OK. He hopes. Things are a little weird. OK, a whole fucking lot weird. But it will be OK, right?

Mom leaves, and Jimmy's all alone in the kitchen. He sits and stares at his father's mug shot, dated seven years ago or thirty seven. He's looking into that face trying to find something of his father there when the computer blinks, hibernates. The screen goes dark and Jimmy keeps staring.

He hears his sister's car door slam and the engine start up. He hears his mom upstairs, opening and closing doors.

He still has his mom and dad and sister, and, OK. It'll be OK. It'll be OK.


	28. What Happened, Pt 6

**Wow. Didn't mean for this one to be so wordy. Sorry about that. I thought about cutting it in two, but I wanted to get through this. **

**There's a pretty steamy scene in here, fair warning. If not your thing, stop reading about the time Juliet explains motor pool rules to the new recruits and pick up again at the next page break.**

* * *

**_Ann Arbor, September 1977_**

DING DING DING DING, her head is still ringing from sudden realization. For whatever reason, her first reaction is to stand bolt upright, in sheer . . . in sheer what? Elation? Panic? Surprise? Terror?

"Everything OK?" one of the Dharma lackeys asks as he walks by.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, fine." She sits back down, stares at the humming Selectric.

Somehow, and she'll never know how, she makes it through the rest of the day. In fact, all of a sudden, she's the epitome of productivity and nervous energy.

Type, type, type, type, DING! Return.

Type, type, type, type, DING! Return.

Type, type, type, type, DING! Return.

Type, type, type, type, tpye, sonofabitch, correction fluid, backspace backspace, backspace, type, type, type, DING! Return.

And then she goes "home." Ha. To her tiny, dingy efficiency apartment. She walks in the door, and it hits her: this crazy wave of giddiness. Of euphoria. She sees _everything_ in a different light: her cereal bowl from this morning, the box of Fruit Loops (DING! And, got it, brain, thank you, you can stop doing that now), a trashcan full of wadded up tissues from last night's crying jag . . . her sad, lonely little place, and . . . and she's not alone anymore. Never had been.

Maybe it's only . . . she tries to calculate. God, why had she ever stopped keeping track of the days?

That damn sign. She'd been _here_ 40 days, that she knows. Before that? God, when had it been? Two weeks before the evacuation? Three? Somewhere in between? Or less than that? Regardless, it's (he? she?) only the size of a bean, but it's (she's?) HERE. And Juliet is no longer alone. She loves it already, if only for that.

She's all alone? Ha. She has her daughter (?) now. She doesn't have anything to remember James by? Ha. She has his child. This teeny one who will one day be a living, breathing symbol of their love.

She straightens up her meager belongings (doesn't take much time). She cooks up a batch of pasta. She hums to herself. She plops herself in front of the news to eat. She cleans up the kitchen. She dances around a little bit putting the dishes away. She imagines tiny little toes and precious eyelashes and dimply little hands. She pulls the bed from her pull-out couch. She reads some.

She goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and it hits her. Oh, God. She's all alone. Her child will probably never know her own father. Not even see a picture of him. And, hell, women single parent all the time, but Juliet's child won't have a father or grandparents, or aunts, or uncles, or cousins, or brothers, or sisters . . . nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

And a living, breathing symbol of their love? Really? Oh, gag (as if she hasn't been doing enough of _that_ lately. DING! _Shut up_). More like a living, breathing symbol of the fact the gas gauge on Jeep #6 doesn't work, and she doesn't take her birth control to work.

This is not happening. This is not supposed to be her life. She got a medical degree - she is not supposed to be in the typing pool. She is from Miami – she is not supposed to be in Michigan. She is (was?) a fertility specialist – she's not supposed to be unexpectedly pregnant. She was born in 1971 – she's not supposed to have a baby in 1978.

She's not supposed to be living in an efficiency apartment. She's not supposed to be alone. She's not supposed to she's not supposed to she's not supposed to.

She has to go back. That's just all there is to it. How did going back there ever _ever _become something to consider? How? Just how? She's not supposed to be here, and the only way to get back to where she's _supposed_ to be is to go back . . ._ there._ After the baby comes. Dharma seemed relatively safe. There were kids there. There will be again, and she can get out before that purge happens, right? If she needs to. If she hasn't gotten back to where she's supposed to be.

She stares at herself in the mirror for a good long time. They brought her there to help the pregnant women. Oh, the irony. God, how did she get to where she is now? How is this her life?

Damn him! Damn him for convincing her to stay. If she was going to get stuck in the past, she might as well have gotten out before she lost her heart again. And damn him for coming on to her when she went out to put the gas in his Jeep. She does NOT mix business with pleasure, except he talked her into it, dammit.

Of course, he didn't, that's not fair. He's never really talked her into anything. Just convinces her to go ahead and do what she knows she's going to do anyway. But still, damn him!

She goes to bed. Well, to her pull-out couch. She doesn't even have a real bed – how is this her life? She lies for a while staring at the ceiling. She intensely concentrates on her lower abdomen. She tries to feel something different, something real. There's a whole person in there. A teensy tiny bean-sized person, but a person nonetheless. She starts to feel euphoric again. Is this how it's going to be? Alternating waves of euphoria and despair?

* * *

September chugs along like a freight train, one of those months where you look at the calendar and could've sworn it was August last week, and how is it October next week? She's been to the doctor. She's heard the baby's heartbeat (and, oh, how she wishes James could be here, except no she doesn't, no she doesn't, no she doesn't). She starts to actually feel better. She buys a transistor radio and an earpiece, and types along to the farm report out of St. Louis (crop yields and market prices, and zzzzzzzzzzzz), and whatever baseball games she can pick up, and the advice line out of somewhere in Wisconsin, the smooth jams out of Detroit, and on Wednesdays and Fridays, the Portuguese soap opera out of Boston (if the airwaves cooperate). She doesn't speak Portuguese, but has a knack for languages. She figures she'll learn.

Finally she has to tell Eleanor, tell someone, tell all of them. She wanted to tell James first. She held out hope that somehow she could. Communications restored, a letter, something, anything. If he's even still there. If he's even still alive. But that's OK, that's fine. Because if there's one thing, that one thing is that she doesn't miss him. No, nope, nope. He'd be freaking out or mad, anyway, so this is good this way. Yep. Phew.

Eleanor's going to start wondering why it is Juliet never gets up from her Selectric. Just hides herself behind its huge, humming mass. And, God, she has to pee all the time, and it's getting kind of ridiculous carrying a bunch of files around in front of herself when she's not blocked by the Selectric. Eleanor claps her hands together, squeals a little, hugs her, and Juliet wishes she told her sooner. She wasn't ready to handle pity and sorrow and false assurances that James was just fine (and Eleanor doesn't even know about the possibility that he could be perfectly fine, but in 2007, or 1954, or, hell, 1492). This unbridled joy, though, that's nice. That makes her happy. Not only that, but her bathroom breaks are so much more convenient without the belly-blocking wall of file folders.

Everything's going so well. She's picking up Portuguese. She's a typing fiend. Nights she enjoys her solitude. Loves it, in fact. Sure thing. Nothing better than just having some nice, quiet time all to herself. Indeed. This is soooo nice.

Juliet gives up on the pull-out couch. She used to think it was perfectly fine, not at all uncomfortable as far as pull-outs go, but she's changed her mind (or the baby's changed it for her). She's now got a mattress on the floor, and that seems to fit her apartment's décor, along with the "media center" (aka boxy TV on two plastic milk crates) and cinderblock and 2-by-4 bookcase she's constructing. She's actually _glad_ James isn't here. He liked things neater and homier.

* * *

Everything's just running along hunky dory until the first week of October. She's listening to a baseball playoff game on the transistor. Vin Scully calling the game for the Dodgers, "It's a beautiful day for baseball in Chavez Ravine. A beautiful, Los Angeles afternoon. . ." It's getting so cold here, and she imagines instead sitting in the warmth of Southern California, watching a ball game, not a care in the world.

Type type type type. She's finishing up something from the zoologists. Experiments with human communication. Potentially interesting, but not if these notes are any indication.

Someone on the Phillies hits a homer, Vin Scully's voice crescendos in her earpiece. She opens up the next file, and her heart catches in her throat.

_Monthly security report 6/75. LaFleur, J., submitting._

His handwriting below. So neat and precise and almost feminine. She teased him about it the first time she saw it. Their two weeks were up, and they were filling out their D.I. application forms. She peered over at his.

"You think we need to disguise our handwriting, too?" she asked.

He squinted at her, shook his head, not comprehending.

She gestured at his application. "That's actually your handwriting?"

Defensively, he mocked, "I think poor penmanship is a sign of laziness," then took a pointed look at her application.

She covered it with a hand, and heard him laugh under his breath.

Now here is his security report, meticulous and straight. She looks at the clock. Nearly five. She types the first page, then folds the original and puts it in her bag. Her daughter (she's just sure of it) will want something to remember her father by.

Home, she pulls the paper from her bag. He touched this, held it, worried over it. She doesn't have anything else that he touched, held, worried over (well, aside from herself, she supposes). This will have to do. How can this be it? Neat and precise and meticulous. The words those of a smart, well-read man, with none of the double negatives or dropped 'g's' of his speech. As far as things to remember him by go, this is pretty crappy.

She weeps. She cries and cries, crumpling the papers in her hand. God, she's spent SO MUCH energy not missing him. Telling herself stupid crap all the time. _What we had was just for a little while_, and _maybe we were never supposed to be together_, and it's better that he's not here and she likes being alone and it's all a big load of crap. All of it. And it takes so much energy to believe it.

She misses him, OK? Misses him so much her teeth hurt. Misses coming home to him at night. Misses waking up next to him in the morning. Misses gossiping with him in the afternoons. Misses reading with him in the evenings. Misses standing in the bathroom brushing teeth together. Misses fucking him. That thought makes her smile through her tears. He'd call it that sometimes, just to get her goat.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She was _supposed _to keep it casual. Just sex and friendship. So much for keeping it casual - knocked up, crying her eyes out, and missing him with an ache that probably surpassed what she felt for her sister.

She goes in the next morning to type his report. The whole file is his. Monthly reports from June 1975 through to April 1977. She types this more slowly than normal._ Blurp blurp blurp _her stomach gurgles at her.

The summaries sound so proper and official, and not him at all, but even so, she tries to hear them in his voice as she types. It's almost humorous. _The security staff has implemented several new protocols in case of hostile encroachment. To wit: claxon alarms will now operate in a pattern indicating . . . _

She stops and tries to imagine him ever actually _saying_ the words "to wit."

_Blurp blurp, _her stomach gurgles again_. _Her fingers fumble over the keys as realization dawns. She stops typing and waits in stillness and silence. Nothing. She starts up again, clack clack clack and then . . . _blurp blurp_. She giggles.

She takes her own sweet time typing up the security file. It takes her a week. A week of hearing his voice in her head (proper and stilted, but she tries to imagine the _real_ him) while her baby wriggles and _blurps _inside.

* * *

She'd meant to swear off the Fruit Loops, but it's 3AM, she's hungry, and she can't sleep. Well, she could. She should, but someone's decided now's the time to practice cartwheels and maybe a little backstroke for good measure. Since that someone lives inside her, it means she's not sleeping. She's two bites in when she decides sugary cereal probably isn't going to alleviate the cartwheeling or backstroking any.

So she sits. The cartwheeling tapers off. She goes back to "bed." This hunkering down on a mattress on the floor is only going to get more difficult. Worry about that later. She can't sleep now, though. Middle of the night worries. Will Dharma let her keep typing after the baby comes? Will she need a new apartment? Will they make her go back before she's ready? Where is James? When is he? Is he alive?

She's sadder now that she's allowed herself to miss him, but in her mind, one truth remains: it is probably for the best. She can allow herself to imagine what could have been, and she can let her fantasies be only happy ones. The reality? When she lets herself think of the reality, she realizes this is probably for the best.

She remembers him grumping about how people treat children, about his own shitty childhood, about how angry he was when he found out he had a daughter. How many times has she heard that story? His anger at Cassidy, at himself, "hell, I's probably even angry at that poor little baby girl who ain't done nothin'."

She's heard it so many times, she could probably recite it herself. Cassidy slapping down that picture – stroke of genius on Cassidy's part, Juliet must say. And now the baby starts cartwheeling again. Juliet's never going to sleep.

How did she let this happen?

She remembers the first time it happened. Or, well, could have happened, but didn't. When James was so proud to run the newcomers' orientation. When Juliet just had to prove a point about not wanting to give the "Introduction to the Motor Pool" spiel. She'd done it once before and _hated _it. Hated the new recruit with the wolf whistle and the "y'all got hot mechanics" and the disbelief that she worked on cars. Hated all of it.

So when James put her on the schedule, she wasn't just angry, she was disappointed. Disappointed he didn't know how much it bothered her. Maybe they'd only been sleeping together a few months, but they'd been friends much longer, and didn't he know? Didn't he get it? When she brought it up to him, he waved off her concerns. Fine. Fine. She'd show him.

She reported to the classroom at her appointed time. She ignored the two dudes in the back elbowing each other and pointing at her. She listened to James' polite introduction. She went through her shtick – how to check out a vehicle, how to return it, regulations on keeping the gas tank at least a quarter full, trouble call forms, jobs that rated a Jeep, roads that were off-limits, roads under construction . . .

"Any questions?"

Someone asked if they need to take any kind of driving test. No. "Anything else?"

She waits a few beats. Nothing. "OK, then. Thanks for your attention." She might have let it slide. She might have let that be the end of it, if she hadn't seen the two guys in the back, one of them cupping his hands to his chest, the other nodding and giving the thumbs up. Sexist pigs. All James' fault.

So, she turned to him, sitting there on the front row, rising to stand. She turned to him and gave him a look. They had already developed an extensive vocabulary of looks. The raised eyebrows of "fucking weird" whenever some only-in-the-70s event occurred. The widened eyes of "shut up shut up shut up" whenever someone was getting ready to say something from the future. The pursed lips of "these people are nuts" whenever someone got too Dharma happy.

Juliet's new look was only a few months old, but never failed to work. It was the half-wink, half-pout of "let's go do it." It meant leaving parties NOW. It meant leaving the dishes till morning. It meant books left on the couch with their places unmarked. It always worked. Always.

She gave him that look now as he started standing up. And then she waltzed out of the classroom and straight on back to the garage where she hid out replacing van shocks for the afternoon.

She missed the fall-out. James would never in a million years cop to liking his newfound responsibilities. Truth was, though, he was extremely proud. LaFleur, the one the newcomers looked to for the island lowdown. LaFleur, the first Dharma authority figure any of them knew.

Now here he was half standing, then promptly sitting. Trying to segue into the next portion of orientation – a trip to medical for in-processing. Trying to be suave and in-charge, but unable to even stand without revealing a totally embarrassing giant fucking boner. Those thin cotton jumpsuits were not particularly forgiving, and James, well, had a lot to hide. He couldn't even stand and turn to address the crowd without more than likely whacking the fella to his right on the head. He sat stewing in anger and embarrassment, and the angrier he got, the more turned on he became. The group started getting restless.

Finally he barked "Everyone up!" and the group stood, scraping back chairs, chitchatting, whispering to each other. James remained seated, counted backwards from thirty. Desperately tried to get control of his body. His walkie chirped. "Hey boss. This night-time fence patrol log? Do we fill that out in triplicate or what?" Phil. And, ahhhhhhh, just like that, he feels himself drooping. For once, thank God for Phil. James stumbled through the rest of the afternoon pissed off and horny.

Juliet had pretty much forgotten it by the time she wrapped up at the garage. She figured they'd have a big joke about it, and she even had a line prepared: "I promise from now on to only use the look for good and not evil."

Innocently enough, she took off her boots outside the front door, walked into the house, and found James standing just on the other side, waiting for her.

"Have fun today?" he asked with a hint of menace.

She intended to apologize. She intended to say her clever little line about using the look for good, not evil. He didn't give her a chance. He pushed her up against the door before her eyes even adjusted from the outside brightness. He leaned into her, and she could feel that he was already raring to go. He fumbled at her jumpsuit snaps, pulled it apart roughly. It was all happening so fast. Kind of scary. Kind of sexy.

"Wait," she said. "Wait, please." She was pushing him off. She didn't have her diaphragm (stupid method of birth control, welcome to the 1970s).

"I been waitin' all damn day," he growled. "I'm done waitin'." And he was in her. She was alarmed, scared. He was frustrated, angry, and using her to relieve himself. God, but how often she'd been just here with Ed. Angry at whatever slight, real or perceived, the world threw at him, then coming home and using her for his release. Using her when it could have been anyone. Hell, it could've been his own goddamn fist.

James thrust into her hard and deep, gasping in her ear "Oh, fuck, I've needed you so bad." And the way he said it, with that emphasis on 'you,' . . . it was _her_ he needed. _She_ had this power over him. Jesus, but it was intoxicating. And then she was right there with him. It seemed each of his thrusts got deeper and deeper, but more tender, too, as if he was getting what he needed. Her. She was what he needed. Jesus. She came just at the thought of it.

And then they slid down to the base of the door, gasping, spent. After a beat, James said, "Point taken. You're off the hook for future new recruit indocs." She giggled, but again, swelled at the thought of the power she had over him. Exhilarating.

Juliet was in the shower 10 minutes later rinsing off the grease and stink and grime of the garage when she remembered the stupid diaphragm or lack thereof. She felt almost immediately sick. It couldn't happen. It just couldn't. Hell, no, no, no, no, please no. She didn't want it, no, no, no. Not here, and not with him. He was a dear friend, yes, indeed, and a good lover, but father of her child? Please, no. And given how it happened? How she knew he already hated himself for creating a child out of a con? And now making one out of anger? Pride? Lust? (any other of the seven sins she could name?) Please, please, please no.

She tiptoed around on pins and needles for 17 days. She'd never been happier in her life to get her period. For 17 days, she'd managed to keep her fears and agitation just under the surface. But she couldn't contain her elation. When she told him, he turned a ghostly shade of white. "We're in the clear," she reiterated, because maybe he hadn't caught that very, very important part.

"Thank God," he breathed. "What would we of done with a baby?" Thinking on it later, maybe she should've been insulted. Except she wasn't in the least. Instead it was like he was reading her mind. Thank God. Thank you, thank you, thank you. For once something was going her way.

Juliet never again spoke at new recruit orientation. James never again wore his jumpsuit without jeans underneath.

And now Juliet lies on a mattress on the floor in a tiny efficiency apartment in 1977 Ann Arbor, Michigan while her baby starts up again with the cartwheels and flips. She misses him dreadfully. Always will, she guesses. But better to miss him and remember happy times than to deal with his rejection. To deal with her child's rejection. Because he would reject them, right? Or would he? Maybe he wouldn't. She's changed, and she knows he has too. But she can't think that way, either, because then the fact that he's gone who knows where who knows when (if he's not dead) becomes too terribly, terribly sad.

She finally drifts off to sleep.

* * *

On her birthday, Alicia and Eleanor take her for dinner. They give her gift – a winter coat.

"Worst gift ever," Eleanor states. "Probably too small for you this winter. Too big next."

Alicia rhapsodizes about the huge crush she used to have on James. "He'd flirt with me some, you know," she states. "Stupid me, I used to think maybe . . ." she trails off dreamily. Then sadly, "He was just doing it to get extra library books."

Juliet smiles, remembering the early days when he'd get extra books for her, too. Before they'd read most everything on the island twice over.

They try to convince her to go with them to the Queen concert in Detroit over the weekend. _Freddy Mercury's going to die of AIDS, you know. _Or, "I don't think so. You guys have fun."

"Oh, come on," Alicia wheedles. "Live a little. It'll be so much fun."

"It's just all the smoke . . ." They've already given her a hard time for always insisting on the no-smoking section. Letting no one smoke around her.

"Hell, Juliet," Eleanor scoffs. "What is it with you? It's not like someone's gonna make _you _smoke."

"It's just, second-hand smoke can be very dangerous. . ." she starts before both her friends start rolling their eyes, mocking her. _Trust me, I'm from the future, _she thinks.

Conversation turns to Thanksgiving plans. Alicia going home to Phoenix, Eleanor sticking around here. Juliet? Not going home.

"Your folks wouldn't be glad to see you?"

"It's complicated." Boy howdy.

"What about Jim's family? I'm sure they'd love to have you."

"His parents are dead." Also: complicated.

Although she imagines both scenarios. Showing up on her parents' doorstep. Tracking down James' family. Sitting with her baby's nine-year-old father. She wonders who she could freak out the most: her mom? Dad? Self? James? Could be fun . . .

At least she's not going to spend the holiday attending to Miles Straume's pie needs. For once.

* * *

Thanksgiving was fine. Christmas will be a different story. It will be harder to be alone on Christmas. Even Eleanor is leaving for Christmas. Juliet will be alone. Well, not totally, of course, but, sorry, baby, you just don't cut it this year.

She's stopped paying too much attention to Dharma rumors and stories. The sub may have left a few weeks ago. Sure. Just like everyone was convinced it left back in September. And did you hear? And did you know? And Craig told me that Alan told_ him _that. . . .she doesn't have the patience for the nonsense. She ignores it.

Today's Friday, and the last Friday before Christmas, which means all sorts of storylines to be worked out in her Portuguese soap opera. She's really got it down, she thinks. Although she hasn't quite figured out if Gustavo is Ana Paulina's long-lost brother or long-lost lover. So, OK, clearly she hasn't _quite_ got it. But, she thinks today is the day Ana Paulina will remember that Gustavo kidnapped her niece. (Ana Paulina's been suffering a bout of amnesia . . . Juliet thinks). It's all so over the top and dramatic and escapist. It teaches her Portuguese, too.

Of course the airwaves aren't cooperating. The station is out of Boston, so it's hit or miss. Juliet discovers if she sets the radio in the corner just so, leans back and to the right like so . . . it's OK. Not great, but it will do. She slots some paper in the Selectric for show. She can't listen through the static, translate the Portuguese AND type sub manifests. She's got herself all set up. Five minutes to go. . .

Craig comes by with some new folders. Dammit. _Leave me alone_. Are they EVER going to run out of crap to type? She doesn't take this job seriously at all, but she tries to look like she does. Or sometimes she does. So, she takes the folders curtly, all business. _Come on, Craig, just leave. I don't understand Portuguese well enough to miss the "previouslies."_

Craig leaves. Her show begins. Ahhhhhhh. This is good. Ana Paulina and Gustavo share a passionate kiss. So, not her brother. She hopes. But Ana Paulina doesn't remember that Gustavo took the niece!

Eleanor stops by. "Robert wants me to come to his parents' house for Christmas. Can you believe it!" Eleanor's been seeing someone. It's big news in the Dharma rumor mill. Eleanor never dated anyone on the island. Juliet started to figure she played for the other team. Nope. Now she's seeing some dentist. Robert. Robert seems utterly boring to Juliet, but Eleanor is happy, and is Juliet really the right person to judge? Boring might just be the way to go . . .

"Mmm hmm."

Juliet misses Eleanor's exasperated look. She tests Juliet's attention with, "I'm just concerned. What with his cross dressing and all."

_Helena's maid (maybe? Maid, right?) may actually be Ana Paulina's niece's mother? But then wouldn't that make her Ana Paulina's sister? Did she mis-translate? _

"Right," Juliet nods in Eleanor's general direction. Can't everyone just leave her alone for forty five minutes?

"Forget it. I'll come back," Eleanor gives in. "It's that Portuguese thing isn't it?"

"Mmmm hmmm."

But now there's a station break, and Juliet types a few names from the April 1976 manifest. And then static. Crap. She moves the radio to another corner, holds it high, low, finds a spot behind the Selectric that seems to work. The show starts back up. Juliet puts her forearms on the desk in front of the Selectric, leans forward so the earpiece doesn't get tangled.

The baby shoves, nudges, elbows against her. "Not you, too," Juliet mutters. "You're just gonna have to deal with twenty minutes of discomfort." Turnabout's fair play, little one.

The story diverts from Ana Paulina. Juliet's not as interested in the adventures of Jorge and Rafaela. But she discovers if she leans in real close, she can hear pretty darn clearly. OK, here we go. Helena is going to tell Ana Paulina what happened with the niece.

"Knock, knock." Someone standing at her cubicle entrance.

_Oh for Christ's sake. I need ten more minutes OK? LEAVE ME ALONE._

Juliet doesn't even bother to look up. "Who's there?" she asks, pretending to play along.

_Helena is explaining about her maid. Maid, right? Yeah, maid. Gustavo took the niece. Ana Paulina is confused. This is getting good . . ._

"Miles," says her cubicle visitor.

"Miles who?" she says, rote memory playing along with the game while the rest of her brain translates and processes the Portuguese.

"Uh, Miles Me? Straume?"

_Ana Paulina feels betrayed. She . . ._Miles? MILES?

Juliet moves her eyes only, worried about knocking out her reception. And there stands Miles. He looks gaunt, his hair looks gray, he looks tired, but there he stands. Her mouth drops open, and she wonders what she must look like with her earpiece in place, hunched over the Selectric, chin hovering over the _zxcvbnm _line.

He kind of waves his hand at her, to break her from her daze. She's not listening anymore to Ana Paulina and Gustavo and Helena et al. But she still hasn't moved. She blinks to make sure this isn't imagination.

"What. . ." she starts. "What . . . How. . . When?" So many questions.

"We just got in five minutes ago."

"We?"

**OK. No more delaying the inevitable. Next 70s chapter will be the reunion. Promise. Thanks gemini ebo with her awesome Detroit 1977 event calendar (Queen! Woot!).**


	29. Miles: Christmas and New Year's

**Last Miles' centric chapter. . . Say goodbye to the Miles POV:**

* * *

The first few weeks after. . . after . . . well, after Thanksgiving is what Miles ends up calling it. The first few weeks after Thanksgiving are kinda shitty. No, not true. Not kinda. They are shitty. Just out and out shitty, no way around that.

Jim takes a few days off, and then after that, if he shows up at all, he's late and hung over. He falls asleep in his car. He jumps down some frat boy's throat for crossing against a light. Miles has to pull him off the poor dude. Their shift commander gets a complaint. Jim kicks a chair and storms out. Miles finally tells Lieutenant Dolan what's up, and that mollifies him enough that he doesn't write a citation for LaFleur's personnel file.

Next day, though, as Miles walks into the building to start his shift, outta nowhere, Jim grabs him and shoves him against the wall. "What gives you the right to go blabbin' my personal business to Dolan? Huh? Huh?"

Miles can't even answer, what with Jim's forearm pressed against his throat. LaFleur backs off a little, and barks, "His wife brought over a Goddamn casserole last night!"

Miles swallows the urge to say _And that's a bad thing because?_ He knows enough not to bait the bear. Instead he chokes out, "I was just trying to help."

Jim lets go of him, but shoves him against the wall again for good measure. "I don't need your fuckin' help," he growls at him.

This time Miles decides to just say what's on his mind. To hell with baiting the bear. He says, "Sure didn't seem that way when you called me in the middle of the night."

"Fuck you, Miles."

As he thinks of his retort, he knows he's going to get punched, but he's had it. _Had it._ It's been 10 days, and Miles has been there every step of the way. Covering for him when he's hung over, checking in on him in the afternoons. What a huge asshole LaFleur is. What a huge fucking asshole. So he says, "No thanks, man. Last person you fucked ended up in a puddle of blood in the middle of the night."

The thing is, the actual punch doesn't really hurt all that bad. It's the anticipation and then the aftermath more than the actual punch. He cringes, and when it comes, right in the eye socket, Miles keels over with his hands on his knees. By the time Miles stands back up LaFleur is long gone.

Miles tells Lt Dolan he "ran into a door," and Dolan gives him a look like he knows it's a huge lie, but he goes along with it anyway. The eye's swollen shut for about 48 hours, then kind of mellows out, a huge gross mass of blue and yellow and purple and green. Miles thinks about stopping by the house, checking in on them, maybe when LaFleur's not there, but he can't show up with this thing on his face without having to explain. Even a week after, though, it's still a nasty purple shade with broken blood vessels.

He's sitting at the security monitors, fingering his cheekbone, which is sore, too, but not nearly as much as his eye socket. He's kind of zoning out. What's he going to do Christmas now that he hates his best friend? And smack! Just like that, a box of Dunkin Donuts Munchkins appears on the desk in front of him. LaFleur is standing there beside him, and takes a seat without being asked to sit down.

"What's this?" Miles asks suspiciously.

"Donut holes. What the fuck does it look like?"

"If this is supposed to be some kind of apology, it's gonna take more than just donut holes," Miles says, reaching in and taking out a powdered sugar one, then turning his attention back to the monitors.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jim shift uncomfortably in his seat and run his hands over his face. Finally, Jim says, "Sorry, man. OK? Sorry. You were a big help, and I'm sorry I was such a dick."

Miles turns to look at him now. Jim winces a little, getting a full-on look at Miles' eye. Miles says, "Yeah, well I guess I'm sorry, too. About what I said. That was really out of line. I wanted to piss you off. I didn't mean it."

They stare at each other uncomfortably, neither at ease with too much sharing, too much talk of emotions. Miles is surprised that Jim is the one to break first and share. "I just needed someone to be angry at, Oda Mae, and you were convenient."

"My face thanks you."

"I ain't apologizin' for that. You deserved that."

"Yeah, OK," Miles agrees, then asks, "So, how're things?" They haven't spoken in about ten days. "How's Juliet?"

"Good," Jim says, considers, amends his answer to "better. We had a huge fight the night before last. Think that probably helped some."

Miles takes a cinnamon donut hole, hands the box out to Jim, who takes a plain one. "Fight over what?" Miles asks.

"Just, I don't know . . . I got tired of . . ." LaFleur fumbles for the words. "I'd say something like I hope it . . she . . .did I ever tell ya it was a girl?" Miles shakes his head, but keeps quiet, he doesn't want to risk saying anything stupid to make Jim mad or make him shut up or anything like that.

"Yeah, well," Jim starts up again. "I'd say something like I hope she knew we loved her or didn't feel any pain, shit like that, and I just got so fuckin' tired of Juliet and her damn facts. Stupid facts about fetal development and what the baby could possibly know and not know. So I said, 'Pardon moi, for just bein' a grieving dad. Must be nice to be so fuckin' clinical and not have any feelings about it.' So then she slapped me, and it was off to the races. Me givin' her shit for bein' a snooty goody two shoes smarty pants. Her throwin' my whole past back in my face." Miles keeps his mouth clamped good and tight, except to take another powdered sugar donut hole.

"Anyway, that lasted till about 3 in the morning. And . . ." he shrugs. "Turns out, everything feels a lot better now. She said it was 'cathartic.' Whatever the fuck that means."

Miles laughs and it feels good. He loves how there's this version of Jim LaFleur who has to pretend he doesn't know what 'cathartic' means, when Miles knows damn good and well that he does.

"So this new jolly mood," Miles asks, "that due to the fact you had some mindblowing makeup sex?"

"_What?_" Jim sputters, choking out donut crumbs. "No. . . We're not supposed to . . . You ask too many fucking questions, you know that, Miles?" He throws a powdered sugar donut hole at Miles for good measure, leaving a white smudge on Miles' uniform shirt.

"Asshole," Miles mutters, but in a good way. He thinks they're back on solid ground.

A few days later, he drops by the house for the first time in what seems like forever. Jim wanted him to bring over a Christmas light strand, and here's Miles, dutifully complying._ Who's whose bitch, now?_, he thinks.

He knocks on the door, and is surprised when Juliet opens it. He hasn't been here in while, true. But back before he got his shiner, he was over here every day. Sometimes he'd go three days straight without seeing her, and Jim would just point to the ceiling, indicating their bedroom. Sometimes she'd be there, just kind of hovering in the background, deathly pale, silent, materializing in rooms, then gone again, like some kind of ghost. It frightened Miles. Not the ghost thing – he knows ghosts, and it wasn't that. It was just seeing her like that, and a glimpse of what it could all be like if she wasn't here, with Jim drunk and grumpy and sullen and mean, the kids totally lying low, over at Mrs. Dawkins' half the time.

So, now, she waves him back to the kitchen. "Come on back. I'm working on something I need to get in the mail."

He follows along like a little puppy. She sits at the kitchen table, starts filling out some kind of form. It's very quiet here, but not the awful, ringing silence from that night a few weeks back.

"Where's LaFleur?" Miles asks.

"Which one?" she responds, without looking up from her work.

Miles stops short, perplexed. Then he laughs, getting it. Depending on how you look at it, either they're all LaFleurs, or none of them are. "The big, grumpy one," he answers.

"He's at the mall with Jimmy. They're Christmas shopping," she says. Then she adds, "Rachel's over baking Christmas cookies with Mrs. Dawkins."

Miles waves the strand of Christmas lights. "Well, Jim wanted me to bring these by." He sets them on the counter.

Juliet finishes what she's working on, folds up the paper, and puts it in an envelope. "I've made a decision, Miles," she says, and his heart hammers so hard he swears he can feel his pulse in his hands. What could it be? "I'm getting the _San Francisco Chronicle_ delivered. It's $600 a year, plus postage, a package to be delivered every two weeks."

"Uhm, OK?"

"I've had it with that microfiche, and we've got the money. You can write a check for your half."

"My half? There are four of you, and only one of me. I'll pay 20%."

"Or, you can just take over your own investment portfolio," she says, looking to him with one eyebrow arched. It's that look. That look, and Miles feels it all lifting. It's all over. Everything is going back to normal. It's seemed like fucking forever, but it hasn't even been a month yet, and OK, everything is going to be OK.

"Fine," he snits, just because he can. He sits down, across from her at the table. He decides to test his luck. There's one more look he needs to see. "If you didn't want to make a pie, you should've just said so. Sheesh. Some people will do _anything_."

He looks, and . . . there it is. Thank God, there it is. The look that would normally turn his blood ice cold. For once, it makes him feel warm all over. He's probably also smiling, but you can't tell from her reaction. Still the death glare. Finally she says, "What happened to your eye, Miles?'

He looks down quickly, then back up again. "Ran into a door," he mumbles.

She nods. "Funny," she says. "I've got a door in my house with swollen and bruised knuckles."

"Weird how that works," Miles says. He hopes Jim didn't tell her what he said before he got the black eye. It was too awful. He shouldn't have said it. "I probably deserved it," he says. "But he's still a grumpy asshole."

"Maybe he'll be less grumpy after tonight," she says.

"Why? What's tonight?"

"Our anniversary."

"How is that going to make him any less grumpy?"

"Know what, Miles?" she says. "You ask too many questions."

He laughs under his breath. Heard that one before. "I'll let myself out."

She gives him her _Chronicle_ subscription envelope to put in the mailbox, and he reaches down to hug her. "Welcome back," he whispers, then skedaddles on out before he has to say anything else, or deal with any sappy aftermath.

When he steps outside, he sees Jim in the driveway, pulling Jimmy out of his car seat.

"Lights are on the counter inside, man," he says, pointing back toward the house. "Congrats." He slaps Jim on the side of the shoulder.

"For what?"

"I think you're probably gonna get laid tonight," Miles shares, then walks on to his car.

He hears Jimmy start up. "Daddylay Daddylay Daddylay."

"Geez, Miles. I go into the house with him talkin' like that, I'm never gonna get . . ." Jim stops short, not wanting to repeat the words.

"He's a guy. He'll have to learn it sometime," Miles notes, and with that, is in the car, pulling from the curb.

He goes home and realizes he needs to actually get some Christmas gifts. Everything's going to be fine. He needs to get gifts. He can pull Rachel's Barbie Jeep out of the closet. He thinks that's OK, right? He can keep making that joke, can't he? If he doesn't, won't they know he's stopped making it out of consideration, and won't that . . . won't that kind of make it worse? Yeah. Miles gets out the Barbie Jeep.

And Christmas is just perfect. He goes over mid-morning, and they're all still in PJs, the kids bouncing around like lunatics, blueberry pancakes (saved some for him), and coffee, and twinkling lights, and it's all just fucking perfect. Somehow better than Christmases he had when he was a kid.

Until. . .

He's on the floor with Jimmy, rolling around a new fire truck. Jim's kicked back on the couch, flipping through new books. Juliet sits with Rachel, putting together her new Weebles tree house. Then Rachel, looking all around, at the tree, and the lights, and the crumpled wrapping paper, and full stockings (Miles gets a lump in his throat to see the one on the end: "MILES," it says) dirty, syrup-sticky breakfast dishes, and all the just too-perfect that Miles never got to have as a kid, Rachel has the nerve to ruin it all.

"I didn't get a baby sister," she says, sucking all the air right out of the room. Jimmy's fire truck siren blares inconsiderately. Miles hears Jim close his book. He sees Juliet take a big gulp. The perfect is all gone. Rachel's too young to realize, so she goes on, "I put it on my list to Santa. I was a good girl, right? Is it because I was a bad girl?"

Jim staggers off the couch and leaves the room. Fuck.

Then Juliet says, "Of course not, sweetheart. It's just, Santa makes toys, not babies."

Rachel asks, "Who makes babies?"

Miles hears Jim bark a laugh then. He's only gotten as far as the door to the kitchen, and the question in its sincerity and innocence turns him around.

"God," Juliet answers, in all seriousness. Then she clips one more piece on the Weebles tree house. "There you go, sweetie. All done. Weebles wobble but they don't fall down." She says the last while looking right at Jim, smiling a sad smile at him.

He nods and smiles back. "That's right. Weebles wobble but they don't fall down."

And by New Years, it's all over. It really is. New Years is always a weird fucking holiday for them. Has been from the very first they spent together. Face it, whenever you go (within reason), Thanksgiving is Thanksgiving with its stuffing and pie and football; Christmas is Christmas with gifts and lights and Santa; St. Patrick's with the green beer and clovers and leprechauns.

But New Year's? The whole fucking point is that it's . . . hello?. . . NEW year. That's what they even named the damn holiday, but 1975 wasn't a fucking NEW year, nor was 1976, 1977 . . . you get the point. It's going to be fucking 1982 . . . _Still_ not a "new" year. New Year's . . . always weird and frustrating. Past years, it would be chilling: Can you believe we're still fucking stuck? It's not so much like that anymore. He's not sure any of them feel stuck, exactly. Until New Year's, that is. It's like a holiday whose sole purpose is to throw it in their faces.

So, they always get drunk on New Year's. It's just what they do. Damn, this will be their eighth one, and Miles can only remember twice that they didn't just get wasted. That first New Year's when they got off the Island. So, goddamn eerie being back, but . . . what was it Juliet called it? Seventiesland? So weird, and New Year's Eve he went over to that crappy studio apartment Juliet had. They all kind of sat around, and he felt third-wheely. Those two couldn't keep their hands off each other back then, and he couldn't much fault them for that, having been apart so long. Such a small little rinky dink apartment, too. So he had a drink, then said his goodbyes, and left. He bet they were doing it before the door closed shut behind him.

Then there was the New Year's before Jimmy was born, and Juliet was frickin' humongous (not that he'd ever, _ever _say that to her, NO WAY), and it seemed like Rachel had some kind of cold or strep throat, or who even knows what, and well, Miles had a date then, so he didn't even bother going over to the LaFleurs'. He regretted it, hanging out with all the people who couldn't believe COULDN'T BELIEVE! The Seventies were over! Yeah, he should have been at the LaFleur's, sore backs and sore throats be damned.

This year there's supposed to be some party Dolan is giving, but Miles can't find a date, and the LaFleurs can't find a sitter (so Claudia has plans to be out? He wants to ask, but doesn't), so it's a good old-fashioned time-travel drink fest, coming right up!

They celebrate and count down at 8, for the kids' benefits. WOOOO! Jimmy loves the noise, and the noisemakers, and hats, and everyone cheering and kissing and singing, so they do it a few more times for good measure, downing champagne as they go. Miles is feeling loopy before the kids are even tucked in and snoozing.

Then they break out the hard stuff, and Juliet dances with him, slurring that they have to practice for that Asian-American society meeting in March, and is she supposed to pretend she's his girlfriend or what? Jim breaks in, and then those two dance a bit, and Miles just collapses on the sofa. He rallies, drinks more.

They watch Dick Clark. "Now there's someone who's fuckin' ageless," Jim mutters. "Seriously. We're gonna catch up in like 2005? He'll be same old, same old, and we'll be fucking grey headed, bald, you name it . . ." Ageless Dick Clark. It adds to the creep factor. Miles drinks more.

They count down again at midnight, more drinking and toasts, and singing and hugging and kissing. 1982! Oooooh boy, never been here before. Then he notices Jim and Juliet are kissing just a little bit too long and too . . . too, like, sucky face, so he dumps some ice on them. All in good fun. All in good fun.

More drinking. More drinking. And more drinking.

And then he's just gonna . . . just gonna . .. like lean over on the recliner, or like, gonna . . . "Are you OK, Miles?" Juliet right up in his face. Yeah he's gonna . . . and he feels her hands under his arms, then hears, "You're a fuckin' pussy when it comes to liquor," and he giggles, 'cause Juliet's voice is so deep and profane, and oh yeah, duh, that's uhm. . . uhm. . . whatshisname. . .he's just gonna gonna. . . yeah, over on the couch here, yeah, thanks, couch. . . It's spinning. No, the room, not the couch, no Miles, not the room, or not the . . . Blackness.

He hears giggling, feels a weight on his chest, and he's dreaming, right? No. Passed out. Yeah. He cracks an eye. Juliet's eyes, huge and blue, and "OHSHIT CAUGHT" staring right at him, her forearm on his chest, and _her_ chest brushing up against like his neck and chin, and this is kinda weird, but, oh yeahhhhh. . . nice, and, damn Jim is a lucky man, and what the fuck is going on? "Ehhhhhh" he kind of chokes out. Blackness again.

Now he hears the both of them giggling. Yeah, that's right. That's fucking right. He can hear Jim Fucking LaFleur giggling, so he knows this is all some kind of crazy drunk dream. Flashing lights, and more giggling. Then the both of them giggling and "stopit stopit stopit, he's right there!" And then low murmuring and low laughter, more giggling, and he's pretty sure some article of clothing landing on his chest, and more giggling, then their footsteps, creeping up the stairs, a door closing shut upstairs, and silence.

Blackness.

"Why'd you got on makeup, Uncle Miles?"

Oh fucking God, his head. What time is it? Where is he? His teeth . . his teeth, fuzzy and nasty, it's like they're wearing sweaters, and what? What was that question? He turns his head. Oh, don't be sick.

Rachel, standing and staring. "Why'd you got on makeup? Why's Mama's shirt on your lap?"

He puts a hand to his cheek, everything feeling kind of rubbery and numb. Rachel walks over to a pile of toys in the corner. Miles puts a hand down, picks Juliet's shirt off his chest, and how in the hell did that get there? And when? Rachel comes back with some pink plastic doll mirror, and hands it to him. Fucking-A. Fucking-A. He's got the whole shebang: lipstick, and eye shadow, and whatever it is they call that stuff that goes on the eyelashes, and the red stuff his grandma called 'rouge.' All of it.

"Go wake up your Mom and Dad, Rachel."

* * *

**Happy Easter if you celebrate! It's also my birthday tomorrow, woot! First time in my life it's on Easter, and last, unless I live to be like 120 or something, which I'm not counting on.**


	30. Slumdog Millionaire

**THANK YOU, tia8206 for the chapter title. I'm really brain cramping on movie titles. WHY OH WHY did I start doing such a silly "theme"? Gargh!**

* * *

James feels the distance his daughter is keeping between them like it's a tangible, murky substance. He stops at the front door to turn on the porch lights before realizing they're already on. Jesus, seems like a lifetime ago Juliet hung up the phone and said, "Go turn on the porch lights. Jimmy says he's bringing something over."

James opens the door now, holds it open for Rachel, and she scoots through, angling her body just so, to where she doesn't have to touch him. She just hugged him in the kitchen. All stiff and obligatory, but even so, all's not completely lost.

He walks behind her, down the front porch steps, onto the front walkway, past the rose bushes, past the mysterious spot where the grass doesn't grow, over the stone steps, into the driveway.

"See you later, Dad," she says once they reach the driveway, and he realizes that's his cue to stay right where he is. She walks around the front of her car (her brand-spanking new Jeep Grand Cherokee wedding gift, Jesus Christ, Miles, give it a fucking rest already), and opens the driver's side door. She steps up to get in, but stops halfway up. She gets out and steps around the still-open front door.

She's staring at him, with her head cocked to the side just a bit. He stares back at her, his hands in his pockets, his head dipped in a posture of defeat. Her mouth works like she's trying to figure out what to say, but mostly they just stare at each other across the hood of her Jeep. (No, no, _no_, the irony is not lost on him).

"Sweet child of mine," she finally says.

"What?"

"Sweet Child o' Mine," she repeats. Then again for good measure. "Sweet Child o' Mine. You used to sing that to me when I was real little."

He nods, not quite sure where this is going._ I'd hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain_, he sings a bit in his head, heart breaking. He hates _hates_ that he's the cause of the confusion and pain and distance she's got set up in her eyes right now.

"That song came out when I was like in fifth grade or something . . ." she trails off. "I remember I couldn't believe Guns N' Roses would make your lullaby a rock song. I argued with my friends over it: 'No, I'm not just imagining it, you guys, my dad sang this to me when I was little.'"

"Sang it to ya when you were a baby, too, actually." He notices he gets a half smile with that bit of info, so continues. "Shoot. First time I sang that to ya? Jesus, probably not even 48 hours after I first found out about you."

She's shaking her head, but smiling, too, a real smile, her lips sealed, her eyes crinkling. She has so many of her mother's expressions, even if she takes after him in almost every other respect. Like for instance, saying, "What the hell's _wrong_ with you, Slash? You sangGuns N' Roses to me in utero?"

"Well, it ain't like I had a whole damn repertoire of things to sing," he fake-snits.

She laughs then, and walks back toward him. He meets her halfway, and they turn to lean their backs against the front of her Jeep. He says, "That first time, Mom said you liked it, so I just kept doin' it. I wouldn't of, if I knew it'd cause a fight when you were in fifth grade." He bumps her shoulder, and she bumps back, that murky invisible barrier dissipating a little bit at least.

"I don't understand, Dad. All that stuff it says you did. I just, I can't wrap my head around it. How can you be so different? What . . . what made you change? _Did_ you change?"

He answers the last question first. "I guess you gotta be the judge of that," he says, and she looks away. He looks up into the night sky, sees a star or two. Goddamn, but on that Island you could see zillions of 'em up there. "As for what made me change? I think maybe you had a whole lot to do with it."

She looks back at him. "How do you mean?"

"Well, back then, back when we were on that Island, we had to pretend, ya know? Couldn't let people know we're from the future, just lay low. It was all kinda a game, just another con. A long, long one, but . . . I remember when I was gettin' ready to leave, I had this whole plan. I's gonna bet sports, game the stock market, make a shitload a money . . ."

"Which is exactly what you did," she points out.

"Yeah. Yeah. We did that. But I also held down a job for nearly 20 years. We didn't really need that money, Rach. We coulda gotten by with just sports bets and stocks."

"So why didn't you?"

"That's what I'm tryin' to tell ya. I planned to get off there, _hoped_ I'd find your mom, but either way, I's just gonna kick back and start makin' money. So, I showed up, and you . . ." he can feel himself get a little choked on emotion, so he quickly finishes. "Well, I just wanted to be someone you could look up to."

"Oh," she says, then quickly looks away again. She's not looking at him when she says, "Did you really do all that stuff? Like that article said?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"I wasn't a good person, Rachel. There's no two ways around that. Took me a long, _long _time to think that in the past tense. I _wasn't_ a good person. Don't mean people can't change."

She doesn't respond right away. He's not sure what else he's supposed to say. Apologize? Explain more?

Before he has a chance to dig himself in a little deeper, though, Rachel says, "Is what Mom said true? Did she really Taser you the first time you met?"

"That she did."

"Good. Sounds like you deserved it."

James' competitive streak flares a little, and he wants to say "Hey, now, your mama ain't no saint herself," but he feels Rachel's head on his shoulder, and knows he's beginning to make progress, beginning to bridge that gap he's created, so he keeps his mouth shut.

She says, "Mom always said she left that Island in the summer, and you didn't get there till Christmas. That true?"

"Yeah. I think probably anything we told you past about 1975 or so is probably all true."

"And you didn't know about me till you got to Ann Arbor?"

He nods.

"And were you. . . were you, well, _happy_ about that?"

What is she getting at? He says, "Well, bein' perfectly honest, I was just mostly happy to see your mom again. You were kinda like an added bonus."

She's quiet for a little bit. Then she repeats "Added bonus," very, very quiet, almost under her breath. She takes her head off his shoulder, and she nods and smiles. "Added bonus," she says again, testing the words, but louder this time. Then, "Being gone all that time – is that why you freaked out so much in there? About Anson being gone?"

"Yeah, in part, I guess." She's looking up to him for further explanation, so he soldiers on. "It was all fine. In the long run, it didn't really matter none that I wasn't there. But, uh, Mom had a miscarriage later that . . . I always wondered if I hadn't been around. . ."

She stares at him, alarmed and shocked. _This _shocks her? We just told you we were time travelers! Come on, now, a little respect for the truly shocking is in order, Christ almighty.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry."

"Hey, it's OK. Wasn't meant to be. Hell, that was a long, long time ago, Rach."

"When?"

"Uh, let's see now." He used to could tell the exact date, but it's faded. He's even got to think on it to figure out the year. "It was Thanksgiving, I remember that, and uh, let's see . . . 1981? Yeah."

She's silent for awhile, but he can tell her brain is working furiously. Then, "Whoa. . . I remember that. I remember that! Uncle Miles came to stay with us, didn't he? I totally remember that! I couldn't find you guys when I woke up, and when I went downstairs, Miles was on the couch, and . . . well, no. No, that couldn't be right."

"What's that?"

She laughs. "In my memory, when I woke him up, it was like he was, like . . . he looked like a clown or something. Don't know why I'd think that."

It's James' turn to laugh now. "Two separate incidents, Sweetheart. One New Year's . . . hell, maybe it was even that same New Year's. You know, I think probably it was. Well, don't matter. Anyway, one New Year's me and Mom put makeup on Miles' face."

She's still laughing, she covers her mouth with her hand, and there she goes looking like her mom again. "Why'd you do that?"

"I imagine alcohol was involved. Sure of it, actually. Can't quite remember _why_ we did it, though. I think he may've thrown water at us or something."

She giggles. "Sounds about right."

They sit in silence for awhile. They hear a car drive by on the street. Then Rachel sighs, "Estranho."

"What?"

"It's Portuguese, Dad. It means weird. This whole thing. Time travel. You and Mom with . . . like . . . different pasts and stuff. Just - estranho."

He's reminded of her trip to Brazil, maybe a year or so ago. Some kind of museum exchange, and she came back full of all sorts of Portuguese sayings. Picked it up – snap – just like that. Jimmy always made better grades, just applied himself better, but James' little girl ain't no dummy, either.

Rachel stands up straight, turns to look at him. "I better get home," she says. James pushes himself off the front of the Jeep, and Rachel hugs him, a real hug. Just like that. "Love you, little girl," he kind of chokes out, and he can feel her nodding against his chest. "You take care of yourself, now, hear? Make sure that fella a' yours takes care of you, too, OK?"

"All right, Dad," she says, sounding exasperated, but understanding. "Don't go thinking I'm not still pissed at you. For all that stuff."

"Fair 'nuff, Half Pint."

She steps away, around the still open driver's side door, and gets in. She closes the door, starts up the engine.

"Call to let us know you got home safe," James instructs.

"Dad, I live five minutes from here."

"For once in your life, can you just do what your old man tells ya to? For once?"

He can see her smiling from behind the wheel. She rolls down her window, and sticks her head out. "That song was about Axl Rose's girlfriend, Dad." And then she backs up and drives off. Home to that Anson boy. Who James likes. He does, he really does. He walked his daughter down the aisle to that man, and, yes, he likes him. Now, though, well, next time he sees that bastard, he's gonna give him a nice, hearty, congratulatory handshake, and he's maybe gonna squeeze just a little bit harder than necessary. Make the boy feel some pain. Sonofabitch knocked up his daughter. Which James is also glad about, or the grandbaby part, at least, but the rest of it . . . that Anson boy better mind his p's and q's, that's all.

He steps back in the house, locks the door behind him, turns off the porch lights. He walks into the kitchen and sees that damn laptop on the counter. The screen is dark, but he can see it all in his mind anyway. _Multiple Offender Pleads Guilty_. He's so angry at that damn article. Not that it's the article's fault. You could find all the same information everywhere else on the Internet. Not that it's the Internet's fault. It's his own damn fault. Maybe he played up the role of Good Guy Jim LaFleur too much. Maybe he should've come clean earlier. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But he's been Jim LaFleur longer than he's been anything else in his life. It's not really even a role anymore.

He catches a whiff of chlorine and realizes the glass door out to the pool deck is halfway open. Through the window he can see Jimmy sitting out there. Now what? He just talked Rachel down, he's supposed to do the same with Jimmy, too? So tricky of Juliet to sneak upstairs to get Jimmy's room ready, and leave James to deal with the fallout. Others 101? He makes a mental note to give her shit.

James steps outside, almost tripping over Jimmy's loafers. They're set neatly together, socks tucked inside. Jimmy's made an effort to move them to the side, but they're just so freaking enormous. Jimmy's never been particularly small. Gangly and awkward as a pre-teen, yes, but, fuck, nearly eleven pounds at birth? The 6-4 man with the gigantic loafers shouldn't surprise him now.

Jimmy doesn't hear him approach, and James watches him, sitting there by the pool. He's rolled his khakis up to mid-calf, but hasn't put his feet in the water. Instead he's got his feet flat on the ground, elbows resting on his knees. The breeze riffles his blonde hair.

"So, what am I missing, Dad?" he asks without turning around. Huh. James definitely thought Jimmy didn't know he was here.

"Sorry?," James says, taking a seat next to his son, ignoring his protesting knees as he lowers himself to the pool deck.

"Let's put it this way: I've been thinking about tonight for a few days at least. And you know what I thought I'd be doing right now? Getting laid, that's what. Not sitting here at the pool with you. So, tell me, what am I missing?"

James laughs under his breath. How is he supposed to answer that?

"Please just tell me she was crap in bed, Dad. Tell me I'm not missing anything."

James laughs again, because, well . . . well, that's just not true. And also . . .they never, _you know_ . . . in an actual bed, so . . . "Truth is, Jimmy. . . truth is . . ." James sighs. God, what is he supposed to say? He can't even really quite remember. It was pretty damn good, he remembers that. For once, for goddamn once, being with someone because he WANTED to. Didn't want nothin' from her. That was pretty nice. Then again, he knew she wanted him to be someone else. Knew that when she was with him, there was at least some small part of her that was actually with someone else. Didn't bother him at the time. He thought he deserved it. God, though, he can't even remotely remember what that must have felt like. "Truth is, it was pretty good. Kinda hot, actually. See they took us, and then had us in these. . ."

Jimmy interrupts. "OK. No. No, no, no, no. Nevermind. I don't want to know. Gross, Dad." He shudders.

"You asked!" James joshes him.

"Well, I've decided I don't want to know," Jimmy states. "And while we're at it, please tell me I haven't met anyone else you've slept with."

James feels a kind of gnawing anxiety, because the boy just met Cassidy tonight. He's gonna have to tell about that at some point, isn't he? Doesn't he want to? Or . . . Oh, God. What does he want? For now, to answer his son, he goes for a joke. It'll have to do. "You mean besides the obvious?" He sort of throws his head back in the direction of the house.

Jimmy wrinkles his nose, shakes his head in disgust. He changes the topic. He asks, very seriously, "So, you never cheated on Mom?"

_What is the deal with these kids?_ Does Jimmy know how many people cheat on their wives? It happens All. The. Time. James made a living off spouses cheating. And Rachel, with all her shock and concern over miscarriage. One out of three pregnancies (and how many times was that particular stat quoted back to him 27 years ago?). One out of three, Babydoll (not that he'd say that to her NOW of all times). Just the thing is: It happens All. The. Time. And this is what they choose to fixate on? Helloooooo? WE'RE TIME TRAVELERS! _Do you not get that?_

"Did you?" Jimmy prods, not getting an answer. "Ever cheat on Mom?"

"Not yet, no."

Jimmy looks at him in disbelief. "You're joking about it?"

"The question is fuckin' bonkers, Jimmy. No, I never cheated on Mom, but come on – _that's_ what you're worried about?"

"Just kinda changes the way I see the world, if you did. This time travel business . . ." he trails off, half laughs. "You're still goin' with that story, Dad?" James nods, Jimmy shakes his head. "Whatever. Thing is, I guess time travel doesn't change who you are, you know. You and Mom having like . . . an open marriage? Or, just whatever. I don't really want to talk about it. It just would make things seem really weird, that's all."

_Weirder than time travel? Really? Really? Jesus, what's WRONG with you, boy?_

Neither of them speaks for a bit. Jimmy finally says, "And don't make jokes about infidelity, Dad. It ruins a lot of people's lives. This guy in the English Department at school, he found out his wife was cheating on him, and . . ."

James doesn't know where Jimmy's story is heading, but he holds up his hand to stop it. "I know, son. I know." Jimmy looks at him alarmed, catching the serious tone in his father's voice. Thing is, James is completely unsettled, and he doesn't know if what bothers him is that he used to be the guy picking at the cracks in people's marriages, or if because he knows all too well, and all too viscerally, exactly how infidelity ruins people's lives.

"My folks didn't die in a car accident," he says quietly, experimentally, testing the waters. He looks over, and Jimmy's still looking at him, eyes wide, full of compassion, concern. Goddamn, he looks like his mother. "Uh, my mama, she, uh, she had an affair, and, uh, long story short, uh . . ." James wipes his face.

"Dad, you don't hafta tell me if you don't want to," Jimmy says.

"No. I do. I do. Just. . ." He's gonna have to tell Rachel, too, now that he's spilling the beans. "Well, my daddy didn't take it so well, and he, uh, he . . ." Why has James always hated telling so much? It's not his fault any of this happened. It just . . . it makes him feel cheap, sordid. The way his parents' relationship soured, imploded. Somehow it reflects on him, the only living product of that union. It . . . He takes a deep breath, and then in a quick tumble of words, "So, he shot her dead. Then killed himself too. All while I hid under the bed. I was eight." There. The end. He said it.

Jimmy just stares at him, unblinking, halfway horrified, but understanding, too, and not judging him, and goddamn, James' head spins just a little bit, because he's back on that beach right now, and Ol' Zeke's just lyin' there gutshot, and Juliet's staring at him the same way.

"Shit, Dad. Shit. No wonder . . ." Jimmy runs his hands up under his glasses, over his face. "I mean . . . Geez." James feels himself smiling inwardly at Jimmy's stammering attempts to say something. _Love you, son_, he thinks as Jimmy works to get it out. "I mean, no wonder you ended up like you did."

"Do you mean ended up in jail on multiple felony charges? Or ended livin' in a fancy house in Beverly Hills?"

"The first, Dad."

"Nah. My own damn fault I ended up that way. I had to let go blamin' anyone else for my mistakes before, well, before I could end up with any of this."

"But, shit, Dad. . . your own parents? Sleeping around? And then . . . hell, Dad, I can't even say it. Shit. I . . . How could they do that to you?"

"Don't think they were thinkin' about me much at all."

"Oh."

What James thinks is, _Yeah, bud, just 'cause you grew up the way you did, doesn't mean we all did. Folks don't always put their children first, you know. _What he says, shrugging is, "Long time ago, buddy."

"Yeah, how long?"

James, seeing what he's getting at, admits, "1976."

Jimmy shakes his head. "Four years before I was born."

"Yeah, or thirty four, dependin' how you look at it."

Jimmy's still shaking his head, slowly back and forth, back and forth. "Time travel," he half laughs.

"It's a bitch," James admits.

"I guess . . . I guess that's why you never really wanted to go back . . . to your right time, I mean. Sounds like . . . sounds like your life was pretty, well. . . pretty crappy, Dad."

"Yeah."

"So how come Mom never wanted to go back? It sounds like she was kinda a big shot or something."

"Oh, she did. She did want to come back. She stayed on with that hippy outfit for a few years even, hoping maybe some day . . ."

"So, then what? What happened? How come she never went?"

"Well, turns out, same day they announced they'd start lettin' folks go back to that island, that was the same day that . . ." _Shit. No sense burdening the poor kid with this knowledge. It ain't his fault. Some people put their kids first, some don't. Jimmy's one of the lucky ones, and besides, everything turned out just the way it was supposed to. Better than anyone could imagine. No, he don't need to know every particular detail._

"Same day that?" Jimmy leads.

"Just same day she decided there was more reason to stay than reason to go."

Jimmy takes that at face value, and moves on to: "So it was a pretty creepy place? That Island?"

James just nods. What's he supposed to tell him about? The Others? How fucking sinister and disturbing that crew was? And, oh by the way? Your mother was an Other. Thought she was one of the worse of 'em, actually. Chew on that for a bit, Big Guy.

Jimmy glances at his watch. "I should turn in, Dad. I don't have class till 10 on Wednesdays, but I promised a kid I'd come in and give him some help during his study hall."

Fella's whole life kind of turned upside down, and he's off tomorrow to go do his job. Look out for some kid who needs extra help. James is just gonna say it. No jokes, no hiding the sentiment. "I'm so proud of you, son."

"Thanks, Dad," Jimmy says. He leans over to him, and looks at him, eyes twinkling over the top of his glasses. "I had good parents."

James can't breathe. Oh, God. He can't break down right here._ Thank you, son. Thank you, thank you._

Jimmy smacks him on the back, and James is still feeling a little too emotionally overwhelmed when Jimmy smoothly lifts himself from the pool deck. James feels a flare of jealousy. Same jealousy he felt that time he and Jimmy were out and the hot waitress was totally flirting with them. Realized it was Jimmy she was flirting with. First time that happened - probably ten years ago. Jesus, but James was off kilter over that. Totally used to it now.

Jimmy reaches down a hand to help him up, but James would rather not take his help right now. Also doesn't want to creak and pop and struggle to get up off the ground in front of his boy. "Think I'll set out here a bit longer," he makes his excuse.

"All right, Pop," Jimmy says. "See you in the morning?"

"Count on it," James says. "Love you, son."

"Yeah, love you, too, Dad."

It's nice here. Pleasant temperature, beautiful blue pool, quiet, his house in the Hills. His wife. His successful grown children. God damn. He chuckles to himself. Can't help but feeling more than a little full of himself. The truth – a lot of it, at least – is out, and things are gonna be OK. Ha! It's all gonna be OK.

* * *

**Yeah, I know, I know. REUNION PLEASE! and etc.! There is a method to the madness, I promise, like not reaching the climax too early (which, incidentally is a minor plot point in a future chapter, just FYI). But, it is coming NEXT.**


	31. How Miles Found Out

Juliet's pretty sure that if she just lowers her head about half an inch, maybe even a quarter, she can use the Selectric keyboard as a pillow. Of course, if she does, the keys will clackity clack clack clack and then wake her from this crazy dream. This dream with real, honest-to-God Miles Straume, ADULT Miles Straume, standing at her cubicle opening. He's waving his arms frantically in the direction of the entrance, in an "Over here! Over here!" gesture like she's a missing person found, and Miles is waving in the rescue crew.

"We? Yeah, me and Jim, who do you think?"

She _thinks_ the Portuguese is still running in her right ear. She _thinks_ there's no possible way Miles just showed up here without warning. She _thinks_ … she doesn't know what she thinks.

"Are you OK?" Miles asks, because, well, because she hasn't moved. See, if she stands up or even if she sits up straight . . . well, her earpiece is going to fall right out, and she spent an awful lot of time getting this setup right, and see, see, Ana Paulina is about to find out the truth about Gustavo, and Juliet can't miss that over some fantabulous scenario of Miles at her cubicle waving James over. No way.

"Oh, thank fucking Christ. Thank you, thank you, thank you." That. That, oh God, that is James' voice. She dares to look over. He's, he's, he's just standing there, too, with a huge duffle over his shoulder. He drops it to the ground, and he looks gaunt and worn and tired, just like Miles does, but he looks real. They're really here. _He's_ really here.

Finally. FINALLY she moves. She leaps up. As feared, the earpiece falls right out. Does more than fall out, drags the whole damn transistor crashing to the ground with it. But, oh God, she couldn't care less about Ana Paulina and Gustavo.

She leaps into his arms, and she keeps saying, over and over "You're here, you're here, you're here," and she realizes he's saying the exact same thing. _Where else would she be_, she thinks.

She pulls back for a second, to frame his face in her hands. Right about the same time he kind of pushes back, too. And something isn't quite right. His eyes seem kind of frantic, not quite focusing, or . . . or something's not right.

He pushes back a bit farther, and squeezes his temples with the thumb and fingers of his left hand. He's staring at the floor, and now his right hand comes out, grasping around like he needs something to hold on to. "I think . . . I think . . . God, I think I gotta . . . I need to sit." He does, indeed, look _really_ unsteady on his feet.

"Sure, sure," she says, and pulls her chair out from behind her desk. James' knees buckle, and he collapses into the chair, with his head more or less between his knees. Miles looks a bit dazed, too, so she explains, "It's the sedative. Some people have more problems with it than others."

"It ain't the sedative, Juliet," he gasps between big hyperventilating gulps.

Not the sedative? What the hell happened to them? Why are they so haggard looking? She looks imploringly to Miles. Can he explain? But Miles, too, still looks bewildered. He's got his eyebrows raised, his mouth kind of hanging open, looking for all the world like baby Miles last time she saw him. Baby Miles. Baby. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh, dear.

She's imagined this scenario in her head about a hundred million times, in at least a few hundred varieties: There's the garden variety tragedy where she learns he's really dead. There's the more fantastic tragedy where she learns he's disappeared. To when, who knows, but she alternately imagines playing at the park with her toddler, when an old man approaches . . . Or, taking her grown child to meet its (her?) dad, when the child is an adult not much younger than her own father.

Or she's imagined communications being restored, and letting him know, and then she's embarrassed and ashamed when he takes the news poorly, in a videoconference in front of all her fellow Dharmites. Or, she sends him a letter on the sub, and never hears from him again.

Then, there are the happy fantasies where she lets him know, and he's on the first sub back to her. Sometimes the baby's already been born, and he gets off and runs to them and takes his child, and smiles and kisses them both, like some sailor off deployment, and that fantasy is pretty dopey and hokey, yes, but isn't that kind of the point of fantasies?

The thing is, in none of her scenarios, not the tragic ones, not the embarrassing ones, not the happy, hokey ones . . . in none of them does he just show up, out of the blue, unannounced. Her, unprepared, speechless, and foolishly hugging him so tight, and completely, _completely_ forgetting about what news a tight hug will convey.

She crouches down next to him now, as gracefully as she can manage (not very).

"James," she tries in that voice that worked to calm him way back when. "James, I'm sorry, I didn't know . . . when we left. And then . . . I wish I could have told you. . . I. . ." she's getting all stammery like she used to when she was young.

He's got his head in his hands, but he reaches his right hand out, waving her off, a sign for her to shut up. "It's OK," he whispers. "It's OK." His hand starts groping about, and she realizes he's trying to find her hand, so she puts his in both of hers.

"Uh, maybe I should leave," Miles offers.

"No, it's fine, Miles," Juliet looks up at him. She wants him to stay. Maybe James won't go bananas or chew her out or some other Sawyer-type behavior if his buddy is right there. And even though he just said it's OK, he didn't exactly sound convinced.

She looks back at him. He removes his head from his hands and looks over at her. His head is still angled down, between his knees, like he still may not be able to stand, or even sit, very steadily. He's smiling at her though. Oh, God, how she missed that smile. He curls his hand around hers to pull her closer. "It's OK," he says for a third time, this time sure and steady.

"Yeah?" she asks, and feels immediately embarrassed by how meek and insecure that sounded.

"Yeah," he answers. "Yeah, God, yeah, of course, a million times, yeah. I just . . . God, thank God you're here." He smiles at her, about the most gorgeous thing she thinks she's ever seen.

He leans in to her, and they touch foreheads. She shuts her eyes. She feels so warm all over, he's here, he's here, he's here. And here we go . . . let's start up the waterworks, although she's proud that it's just silent tears. She could be full-on sobbing right now if she gave it half a try.

"Uh, so," he says. "That time . . . that time, you know . . . the Jeep, huh?"

She laughs through her tears, nods a bunch of times, admits, "Yeah." He chuckles, puts his hand on the back of her head, and holds her to him even closer.

"Uhhhhhh. . . did I just hear right?" Miles says. _He's still here? What's he doing here? Oh, that's right, she told him to stay._ "You did this," he points roughly in the direction of her swollen belly, "in a Jeep?"

"On the hood, actually," James brags, and OH MOTHER OF GOD, could she please just disappear right now? _WHY?_ Why did James have to say that? WHY? And why didn't she just tell Miles to leave when he offered? WHY?

"This is some kind of joke, right?" Miles asks, and when he looks at her, sees her beet red, he laughs. "Oh shit. Oh my GOD that is hilarious!"

"Ignore him, he'll forget about it soon enough," James assures her. His stubble tickles the side of her face, and she turns to kiss him. "I love you," he says over and over to her, and she just nods, because if she tries to say anything she'll be a sobbing mess. James is right. Miles will forget soon enough.

* * *

_FLASHFORWARD _

**January 12, 2008 Los Angeles, CA**

"OK. What about this one?" Juliet asks, spinning around in the latest dress.

"Eh," James shrugs half-heartedly.

"Too frumpy?"

"Hell, I don't know how I'm supposed to react. That last one I said looked good, you said 'not frumpy enough.' So, hell if I know."

"All right. I have some others to try, then."

He pushes her – roughly – up against the wall, holds her wrists down, really tight. "You listen here, and you listen good," he growls at her. "Who the fuck are you, and what did you do with my wife?"

"Very funny. Let me go."

He complies. "Just – seriously. What the hell? I ain't never known you to try on a shitload a dresses, and why wait till the last minute anyway?"

"It's a lot of pressure, Mother of the Bride. When I stand up, that's when everyone stands up. Everyone will see me. I don't want to embarrass her, and I want to look nice, but not too nice, and . . ."

He interrupts her by putting his fingertips to her lips. "Hush. You're gonna look fine."

"Easy for you to say. All you have to do is put on a tux. Never had to wear a sea foam green ruffly bridesmaid dress at your college roommate's wedding, either, I bet."

"Fun fact," he declares. "I ain't never been in a wedding before."

She looks at him curiously. "Really? Is that true?"

He laughs. "Well, looky there, what are the odds? I just thrown down a little piece of personal trivia you ain't learned in thirty four years. Wonders never cease. Yes, as a matter of fact, I never been in a wedding before. Not even my own. Which is weird, because to all outside appearances, I been married for thirty years."

"Well, I've been in a bunch, including my own," she says pointedly. He huffs at that (all these years later he still can get indignant about Edmund). "I want to get this right."

"Fine. That one then," he points to the second one she tried.

They hear a car in the driveway then. Rachel's supposed to be here at 3:30 (better known as five minutes ago). Her dress is here, the hairdresser is coming here, they're going to drive her to the church. James peers out the window, shakes his head. "It's Jimmy." Of course Rachel is late. Of course she is. Has she _ever_ been on time? And what's Jimmy doing here? Isn't he supposed to meet them at the church?

Juliet slides back into her jeans and t-shirt. Second dress it is. She puts it back on its hanger, slots the hanger over the top of the bedroom door, and follows James down the steps and out the front door. Jimmy's got the trunk popped, and is rummaging around at the back of his car. Seeing his parents, he explains, "Rachel's running late, so she got me to pick up the flowers." He slams down the trunk with an elbow, joins them on the front porch with a big box of flowers. "Hey, Ma," he leans over to kiss Juliet on the cheek. "Get the door for me, Pop?" James lets him in.

Jimmy's black dress shoes squeak when he walks. He's got on his tux pants, shirt tucked in loosely, untied tie draped over his neck. No glasses. Hmmmm. Means he's probably interested in some girl. At a wedding. How cliché. Although, if he's interested in some girl, maybe that means that horrible Tilly person really is history.

"I have no idea what he sees in that Tilly," she once said to James.

"You don't? Want me to spell it out for ya?" And she knew what he was getting at, but not Jimmy, not her little boy. James could see she wasn't convinced. "Hell, Juliet. He's a guy who ain't yet thirty. Honestly, what do ya think he's interested in that girl for?"

"Maybe," she halfway conceded.

"Hell, I'm a guy who ain't yet seventy. Trust me on this. Listen, lady, you think I'd still be around if you didn't still put out?" She rolled her eyes dramatically and turned on her heel to leave. Conversation over. "Hey, ya know I'm just kiddin', right? Kind of," he called after her.

"Mom!" Jimmy says loudly now. "I asked you where you want me to put these." He rattles the flower box at her.

"Kitchen counter," she answers.

He sets down the flowers, and they escort him back out front. They're all standing there when an unfamiliar car, a late-model Jeep Grand Cherokee, comes around the corner and pulls into the drive. Her first thought is to wonder if they've finally redesigned the cylinder heads on those things. Then she realizes it's Rachel behind the wheel. Ohhhhh nooooo. If this is one of Miles' "gifts" . . .

Of course it is - what else could it be? And she was feeling so charitable towards Miles. Planning to wear that beautiful diamond bracelet he gave her more than twenty five years ago. . .

Rachel toots the horn, puts on the parking brake, and cuts the ignition. She hops out.

"Holy shit, Sis, new car?" Jimmy says.

"Wedding gift from Uncle Miles," she trills, and gives the hood a good thump. Juliet feels herself actually jump a little bit. She throws a sidelong glance James' way. _Didn't you say he'd forget about it?_ She silently asks him. He twists his mouth, rolls his eyes. _Ain't the first time I been wrong, _he silently replies.

"What is it with him?" Jimmy asks. Rachel shrugs an exaggerated shrug. "You guys know?" Jimmy turns to ask James and Juliet, who both vehemently shake their heads. _Nope, no clue, no clue, nothing to see here . . ._

Rachel says, "Do you think I even care what his deal is? I just got a new car!" (_But you could afford any new car you want_, Juliet thinks. _Why does it have to be this one?_)

The windows are unrolled, and Rachel's leaning in through the driver's side, Jimmy through the passenger's. She's pointing out all the tricked-out features, he's shaking his head in disbelief, between random utterances of "Cool!"

"Wow, awesome, awesome Rach," Jimmy says. "Damn, you're lucky. Did I ever tell you what Miles gave me when I turned 21?"

Rachel shakes her head. Juliet's ears perk up. This should be interesting.

"Five hundred shares of Sealy, Incorporated."

Rachel stares at him. "I don't even know what that is."

"Like Sealy Posturepedic . . . they make mattresses."

"What the hell?"

"Beats me. He said something about it being one of his lucky stock picks. Whatever. Doesn't matter anyway. I sold them and bought a metric shit ton of snowboarding equipment. Took a bunch of buddies to Squaw Valley."

Juliet is somewhat mollified. _Ha, Miles. Ha._ She's not _entirely_ sure, but she's fairly confident Miles is wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. He should be giving Jimmy shares of La-Z-Boy. Not that she'd ever tell him. Not that she'd ever acknowledge his lame, embarrassing gifts. And why not? Because she thinks if she ignores it, he'll stop doing it.

It's been thirty years. She may need to re-think that "ignore it" strategy.

"So, wanna take a spin?" Rachel offers Jimmy.

"Yeah!"

"Uh uh," James declares. He looks at his watch. "No way. Listen here, Half Pint, 'member when you was growin' up, I'd say 'you're gonna be late to your own wedding'? Didn't mean that as a suggestion."

Jimmy slides back into his car. "Flowers in the house, Sis. See you fine folks later. Gonna go check in on Anson."

James and Rachel go back into the house. Jimmy backs out of the drive. Juliet stares at the Jeep mocking her. Once she's sure James and Rachel are out of sight, she reaches in the still-open driver's window, reaches down and pops the hood. She goes around to the front and stares in. The cylinder heads _do_ look better and the fan belt connection has . . .

"Yo! Mama of the bride!" James calls from the front door. Caught. "Ain't ya supposed to be tryin' on dresses or something?"

She slams the hood shut, pats the same spot Rachel did. Rubs it kind of fondly, actually. Horribly embarrassing, God. But it all turned out pretty good, didn't it? Maybe she'll wear Miles' diamond bracelet tonight after all.

* * *

**That wouldn't be a bad place to end, would it? But I don't know how to quit while I'm ahead, so ONWARD! (i.e., there's more)**


	32. Interlude, Rachel, 1990

**First, indulge me, please, in a little author's note. You know how LOST goes? Locke inspected Nadia's house. Suuuuuuuuuuuuuure he did. Sure. And Sawyer drank with Christian Shephard. Uh huh, yeah. It happens in this very story! Juliet and Rachel go to the prison the same day Cassidy is there? OK, fine. And Munson is Miles' financial planner. Just go with it . . . Out of all the coffeeshops in LA, Jimmy just happens to run into Kate? Suuuuuuuuuuure.**

**Except! Guess what I just found out? I will spare you the details, since I realize you didn't come on here to read long-winded author's notes. BUT! I just found out that in the fall of 2001 I took a class with (DRUMROLL)... tia8206. And if you don't know who I mean/haven't read her stories on here, I have to ask: Why are you wasting your time reading this one? Seriously go read her stories, and then come back, because this will still be here waiting.**

**OK, are you back? Good. **

**Anyway: EEP! ISN'T THAT WEIRD? ISN'T THAT VERY LOST OF US? And here I was just two chapters ago thanking her for helping me with chapter titles. Yeah, we discussed them 10 years ago. HA HA HA. No, we didn't. What we did instead, I think, and she remembers better than I do, is give our professor heartache. **

**That's actually way weirder than anything that happens in this here chapter. I'm sorry. Just really, really weird. **

**OK, thanks for indulging me.**

**And so . . .**

* * *

_**September 14, 1990 Ann Arbor, MI**_

"You think Fielder's gonna do it, Dad? He hit another one last night. I bet he can," Jimmy says.

Yawn. Yawn. This must be about baseball. Jimmy talks about three things: 1) Sports; 2) Space; 3) Getting a dog. Yawn. Yawn. Yawn.

"Pass the squash, please, Rachel," Mom asks.

"Fifty homers is a lot, Jimmy, but I don't know . . . I bet he can. I bet he can." Dad winks over at Mom. _What. Ever._ Why that's something he has to wink at, who knows. Just:_ whatever._

The phone rings. Drat. That's Jenny. Jenny really really needs to talk. Really. Why'd she have to call at dinner? It rings again. This is really really very important.

"Dad, please. That's gonna be Jenny, I know it. She really needs to talk to me. It's important. Can I please get it, please? _Please?_" She actually stands at her seat. The phone rings again.

"Last I checked, you ain't her therapist. The machine'll get it. Sit." Dad points at her seat with his index finger. Another ring.

Rachel sighs heavily and rolls her eyes. She sits. She doesn't miss Mom glaring at her. _Holy scary eyes, Batman_. "I hope I didn't just see you roll your eyes at your father, young lady."

"Sorry, Dad," Rachel mumbles. The phone rings again. One more ring to go before Dad's horrifyingly embarrassing answering machine message comes on. Everyone who calls in gets to hear his awful and embarrassing accent. Rachel's just glad he doesn't say something like "Ain't no one here to take your call."

Here it comes: "You've reached the LaFleurs. We can't take your call right now. Please leave a message." Except "can't" comes out kinda like "cain't." Rachel cringes. Ugh. Dad's soooooooo embarrassing. He doesn't even say to leave the message after the beep – like you are_ totally _supposed to. _Everyone's_ answering machine says that except theirs. When Rachel complained about it, Mom said, "If someone's not smart enough to figure out when to start talking, maybe we don't need to hear from them."

Still, just hearing Dad's voice on that thing . . . awful. Once when Heather was over, Dad said, "I think I got me a hankerin' to listen to some Loe-retta Lynn." Rachel wanted to just die. Die. Dad and Mom listen to cool music normally. Why does he have to talk like that – IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE? Probably just to embarrass her.

Here's another embarrassing thing: at a pool party back in August, Rachel saw Jenny's mom and Heather's mom looking across the pool at Dad. Heather's mom said, "That Juliet LaFleur is one lucky woman." GROSS. GROSS. And, erm, she is so totally NOT. Those ladies must not know that Dad sleeps in these ratty plaid pj bottoms and wears them around the house until like noon on Saturdays. Or they don't know that he wears reading glasses on a goofy little chain like an old woman. Or he sometimes sneezes so loud that it scares Sophocles. Or that whenever Mom's doing something disgusting like cutting up a raw chicken or putting Calamine on Jimmy's nasty poison ivy rash, he'll say something horrifying and embarrassing like "Loooookin' fiiiiiiiine, babe." Gross. Gross.

BEEP.

"Hey, Rachel, it's me. Jenny. I guess you're eating, huh? Hi Mrs. LaFleur! Hi Mr. LaFleur! Rach, you gotta call me back as soon as the parentals let you, OK? Enjoy your dinner!"

Rachel doesn't miss the sarcasm in that last bit. Jenny's parents let her eat dinner in front of the TV. And she can totally talk on the phone during dinner, too. Whenever Rachel points something like that out, Mom will always always always say, "I don't care what Jenny's parents let her do. Our house, our rules."

Why are Rachel's parents sooooooo lame? Why? Why?_ Whhhhhhhyyyyy_?

Rachel goes back to picking at her baked chicken.

"What's going on with Jenny that's so very, very important?" Mom asks.

"Her parents are getting a divorce," Rachel says.

"How come?" Jimmy asks.

"Uhm, because they don't love each other anymore. Duh?"

"Well, now," Mom says. "That's not necessarily true."

"Of course it's true, Mom," Rachel says.

"What I mean is, just because two people love each other, it doesn't mean they're supposed to be together."

"What? That's a stupid thing to say, Mom." Oh, shoot. Shoooooooot. She basically just called Mom stupid, didn't she? Oh, no. Now Dad is going to ground her for like - EVER. She'll never ever be able to call Jenny back. Think of a way out of this – she'll offer to clean Sophocles' litter box for a week – TWO WEEKS! Yeah.

Dad's getting ready to talk. Here it comes . . . "Kid's right, Juliet. That's the craziest thing I ever heard." Uh . . ._what? _Dad's _agreeing _with her?

Mom pinches the bridge of her nose, but she doesn't say anything.

Dad says, "Is this about your folks? Better not be about you. Please don't tell me you were still in lo. . ."

"_James_," Mom cuts him off. This happens sometimes. Like they aren't telling Jimmy and Rachel the whole story. All grownups do this, Rachel thinks.

"No. Don't 'James,' me. You can't seriously think that makes any sense. I just want to hear where this is comin' from. Enlighten me."

"Later," Mom whispers, and she looks kind of sad about this and whoa, this is getting _verrrrry interesting_.

"Pass the rolls, please, Dad," says Jimmy.

And the moment passes. Of course it does. Mom never gets too weird or emotional for too long. Rachel's never ever ever going to figure out what that was all about, because Mom says now, all very calm and normal, "I think I might be able to get tickets for the Michigan-UCLA game next week."

"Really? Cool!" says Jimmy. _Oh, way to ruin the moment, Jimmy. Idiot_. OK, He's not that bad, but, just, how come she couldn't have a sister? Jenny's little sister Michelle does her nails with her and lets her braid her hair. Jimmy plays Lego's and organizes baseball cards.

Mom starts telling about someone who knows someone who knows someone. Whatever. Football tickets to the Michigan game. Then something about computers. That's what Mom does, invest in computers. Dad blah blah blahs about some new regulation down at campus security. _Fascinating_. Has she mentioned recently she has the world's lamest parents?

Jenny's parents get all dressed up and go out dancing and stuff (Mom and Dad sometimes, yawn, dance in the kitchen). Jenny's parents have a hot tub and, grody, Jenny said she once caught them like, making out or _Doing It,_ or something in there. GRODY GRODY GRODY. Jenny's parents go on cool trips. Jenny's parents have a "wet bar" in their house. Here's what Rachel's parents do on a wild and crazy night: Dad sits on Mom's side of the couch and Mom sits on Dad's side. Lame lame lame lame lame lame. Dad says they don't need adventure, "Had our share of that before you kids came along." _Like, I'm so sure, Dad. _It's not like they even went to Woodstock or anything – Rachel's asked.

Of course, as it turns out, Jenny's dad has a girlfriend. Which Jenny's mom knew about but pretended not to, for some reason, Jenny isn't sure about that. Someone saw Jenny's dad and the girlfriend together, and told Jenny's mom about it, and now she can't pretend she doesn't know anymore, and, well, now they're getting a divorce, and Jenny's dad is going to move to Detroit, maybe, with the girlfriend. Jenny doesn't care about that. Jenny's dad is gone half the time anyway, and doesn't pay any attention to her. He gave her My Little Pony for her last birthday. They haven't played with My Little Pony since they were seven!

Rachel's dad is super embarrassing, there's no doubt about that, and if she could avoid being seen in public with him, she totally would. But he's a good dad, and he would never give her a lame gift like My Little Pony for her twelfth birthday. And Heather's dad? He goes all the time to Heather's brothers' games and coaches their teams and stuff, but he doesn't ever go to her dance recitals or really seem to care about her stuff. It's like he likes the brothers more than her. Dad isn't like that, either. He's probably the best dad of all her friends. But still . . . so, so, so, so lame and embarrassing. He always makes awful jokes and calls people stupid names. Really, he'd be perfect if he never went out in public.

Although, let's be honest. Poor Mom. Dad is nobody's idea of a dream guy (despite what Heather's and Jenny's moms think). He's no Mike Seaver, that's for sure. Mmmmmm… Kirk Cameron… And, hey, was Dad saying something about someone Mom USED to love? Before Mom basically told him to shut up? Didn't he? Was it her dream guy?

Dinner's over, but she still can't call Jenny until they clean up the kitchen, and even then, she can only talk to her until 7:30, since she has to start homework at 7:30. Mom and Dad go off to . . . somewhere, and Rachel considers sneaking off to spy on them, because, clearly, they are going to talk about whatever that was that just happened at dinner. But she has to do the dishes. Gah! Because she really really needs to call Jenny.

And she does, and Jenny's all upset because this whole thing means she's probably going to have to move to a new house . . . and maybe a new school. And her dad is acting all weird and polite and her mom cries all the time, and it sounds pretty awful. Jenny's little sister is totally upset about it, and won't talk to anyone and . . .

"Homework, Rachel." Mom at the door. _Ugh_.

Rachel turns so Mom can't see her, rolls her eyes and says to Jenny, "My mom is making me go do homework. Gotta go." Then she whispers, "I'll try to sneak a call in after bedtime, OK?"

She hangs up, and gathers her books. Mom says, "No sneaking calls after bedtime. Unless you want me listening in." She heard that?

She has to finish typing her book report on _James and the Giant Peach_. Dad says it sounds like a book about him and Mom right before Jimmy was born. _Oh, ho ho ho._ See? SEEEEEEE? See what Mom has to put up with? If Heather's and Jenny's moms knew he said dumb stuff like that they would NOT think Mom was so lucky. He is soooooo embarrassing. And besides, Dad has totally read it before so he knows it's not about him and Mom, guh. He read it to Rachel a few years ago. Mom says he just has to say lame things like that because he can't help it.

She finishes her homework and gets ready for bed. Dad peeks in the door. "Want me to read your report, Half Pint?" _Yeah, if you don't make any lame jokes._

Rachel nods. She asked him to do it, because Mom will always find some teensy typo somewhere and make Rachel fix it and say something like, "You have a word processing program on your computer. It will take all of ten seconds to make this fix. You know, I used to have to type on . . ." blahblahblahblah because Mom is like from the olden days and didn't have a computer and probably learned to drive on a Model-T Ford or something (not really, she's not _that_ old).

Rachel hands over her report, and Dad pulls all the perforations off like he always does. He lies down on her bed and puts on his glasses with that stupid old lady chain. He reads it, asks her a few questions, says it looks good.

"Why was Mom so upset at dinner?" Rachel blurts out. She wasn't even really planning to ask, but . . .

"Maybe you should ask her about that."

Rachel just stares at him. She thinks, _Come on, Dad. Like Mom will ever just answer a question like that without turning it all around so she doesn't even answer it._

Dad sighs. "All right. Her parents got a divorce when she was not a whole lot younger'n you."

"Before Granddad went to Korea?"

"Huh? What do you. . .? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, before then. Uhm, anyway, turns out they told her this whole song and dance about they were still in love, but just not meant to be together. . . I think Mom kinda believes that."

"Still?"

"Guess so."

"Why does it even matter anymore?"

Dad thinks. He takes his glasses off his nose, and leaves them on his chest. Why does he wear that dumb chain? He says, "Well, I guess she likes to think . .. well, guess anyone would like to think . . . I dunno, Rach, just . .. you know, she wants to think her folks were in love, and she don't wanna think she got born by accident or somethin'."

"Oh."

_OH_. _OOOOOOOOOOHHHHH._

OK, this is a whole nother topic that Rachel has been thinking about for_ever_. For a really really really long time. More than two years.

When Rachel was in fifth grade, her social studies teacher, Mrs. Collins, was going to have a baby. Guess what? Due on Rachel's tenth birthday! Mrs. Collins was so pretty and nice and all the girls were jealous that her baby might come on Rachel's birthday. Rachel thought that was so cool.

Then, right before Christmas of fifth grade year, Mom went out to the car and found out that it was full of old cans. Totally full up. Dad's car too – full of cans. Uncle Miles filled up their cars with cans. Why? Because if you look on the back of a calendar or something, you'll find out that aluminum is the gift idea for a tenth anniversary. Ha ha ha ha ha. Rachel thought that was so funny.

Until she started thinking. _Wait a minute, Mom and Dad have been married for ten years, and my tenth birthday is in April… _Then she got a picture in her mind of Mrs. Collins, who, like, well, you could totally tell she was going to have a baby, and does that mean that Mom looked like that when she got married to Dad? Is that why they don't have any wedding pictures? She asked, but Dad said there was a broken pipe in a closet that ruined a bunch of stuff. . .

That whole thing stuck in her mind, and she planned to ask about it. She planned to ask. But for her tenth birthday, they went on a surprise trip to Disney World, and she didn't want to say anything weird to make the trip lame or anything.

Then she stopped thinking about it for awhile until they went to a cookout party with the other security guys from Dad's work. She was waiting in line to get a hot dog, and she heard some people talking about this guy Jeff who worked with Dad. One of the ladies there said that Jeff and his girlfriend got married. Then the other lady said, "The way I heard it, they _had_ to get married."

And Rachel wondered. Really wondered - What does that mean? _Have_ to get married? Who makes you do it? And why? And what if you don't really want to? Do you still have to?

This was tricky. Rachel asked Jenny, and Jenny said she thought maybe the girl's dad is who makes you get married. Like maybe if he finds out that you and your boyfriend make out too much or even Do It. Maybe, maybe.

Rachel didn't want to ask Dad, because she was pretty sure it had to do with S-E-X or something, and no _way_ was she asking Dad about that. So, she had to ask Mom, but that's the tricky part, because Mom is like an expert at answering your question, and then like five minutes later you realize she didn't answer it at all, and now it's too late to ask again. So, Rachel had to wait for her opportunity.

It came one night when Dad had to work a double shift, so didn't come home for dinner. Jimmy was at the kitchen table doing his spelling words. Mom was fixing dinner. Rachel waited for her moment.

Mom, chopping vegetables for salad: "Judge."

Jimmy: "J – U – D – G – E."

Mom: "OK, right. Giraffe."

Jimmy: "G – E – R – A . . . uhm, hold on . . "

Oven timer: BEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Mom: "Where did I put the oven mitts?"

Jimmy: "Lemme start over. . . G . . . uhm . . .

Rachel: "Mom . . . "

Mom: "Hold your horses. I can't find the oven mitts."

Jimmy: "G – I – R – A . . ."

Mom: "Here they are!"

Rachel: "What does it mean when someone _has_ to get married?"

Jimmy: " . . . F . . . uhm. . . E?"

Mom: "It usually means the woman's going to have a baby, and they have to get married before the baby comes. Stand back, Rachel, I'm opening the oven. Jimmy, say that again, I don't think you got it."

BINGO. _It worked_. It totally worked. Mom actually answered, and . . . wow. Does that mean Mom _had_ to marry Dad? Did she want to? Is Mom sad about that? Dad is such a good dad, is that the reason she married him? So Rachel would have a good dad? Did she wish she could marry her dream guy instead? Or is Dad her dream guy? If so, _why_? And they so totally _Did_ _It_ before they got married. . . hee hee hee. Even though she'd already kinda figured that part out. She decided then that she soooooooo needed to talk to Jenny about all of this.

She's been mulling over all this for more than two years now. She worries that Mom didn't get to marry her dream guy because she had to marry Dad. Because of Rachel. She's been watching for clues. Mom sometimes gets kind of mysteriously sad, so that's a clue. But then again, Dad always cheers her up. And Dad makes her laugh real big sometimes. And sometimes Mom comes up behind Dad and puts her hands over his eyes and says "Guess who?" Like, duh, she doesn't even disguise her voice or anything. Then Dad, blah, kisses her. And they dance around in the kitchen sometimes (and sometimes Dad puts his hand on Mom's butt, gross), which would be embarrassing if any of Rachel's friends knew about it. . . but all in all, the clues seem to indicate maybe Mom is OK with being married to Dad.

But it still doesn't mean that Rachel herself wasn't some kind of accident or mistake . . .

"Watcha thinkin' 'bout, Princess?" Dad is lying there on her bed with her book report in his hand. He swings his legs over the side and stands up.

"Huh?"

"I can see the gears in that pretty head grindin' so hard, I'm surprised there ain't smoke comin' out your ears." He tugs on her right earlobe.

She twists her head away. She's twelve. She's supposed to think it's lame to have your dad pull on your ear. Even though she still kinda likes when he treats her like a little girl. But she doesn't want him to know that.

"Just thinking about Mom. How come she never told me that before?"

"Guess she didn't see any reason to," he says.

"Oh."

Dad hands back the book report. "All right. Less there's anything else, I gotta go check and make sure your brother brushed his teeth."

Rachel just shakes her head. There is so much else to ask. So very much. Too much to even get started.

An hour later, she's got her clothes out for tomorrow, put away her books, brushed her teeth, getting ready for bed, and there's a soft knock. Mom peers around the door.

"Night, Mom," Rachel says from her bed.

"I've got something for you," Mom comes in with her hands behind her back. She sits next to Rachel on the bed, and holds out the phone receiver. "Thought you might want to call Jenny."

Rachel accepts the phone, even though she's just a little suspicious. "Are you gonna listen in?"

"No, sweetheart, I'm not."

"OK, thanks."

Mom asks, "How's she doing? Jenny?"

"OK, I guess. I think she probably knew something was up. But, Michelle? Her little sister? She's really really upset. Jenny is, you know, trying to be brave for her and stuff."

Mom says, "Mmmmmmmm," and has one of those sad looks. That would've been nice for Mom when her parents got a divorce. She probably wishes she could have someone like Jenny look out for her.

"Dad told me about your parents."

"Your dad is a blabbermouth," Mom says, but with a half smile that means it's OK, and that it's not like she's mad at Dad or anything.

So Rachel just comes right out and asks, "Mom? Is Dad your dream guy?"

Mom laughs, but when she looks over at Rachel, she can see Rachel is Very Serious. She really wants an answer. And you can kind of tell Mom is trying very hard to act like she's serious, too. "Well, now, 'dream guy,' that's just a term, I don't know if . . ."

"Mo-oom."

_Just answer the question, why don't you?_

"Yeah, OK. I guess he kind of is." She nods decisively.

Rachel smiles a big smile. Good. That's very good. Her being born didn't ruin anything.

Mom says, "Don't you dare tell him I said so. His head's big enough as it is, don't you think?"

Rachel giggles. "Yeah," she agrees.

Mom leans over to kiss the top of her head. "Tell Jenny that she and Michelle are welcome over here anytime. OK? If they just need a place to get away."

_Yeah, come here were everything is always always always the same. Same and boring. Snooze._ Although, thinking about it, Rachel realizes how very glad she is.

Mom pats Rachel on the thigh, then points at the phone. "Thirty minutes, tops. I'm coming back in here to get that phone."

"OK, thanks, Mom."

Mom leaves, shutting the door behind her.

Rachel gets on the phone to Jenny. Part of this eyerolling disgust (_most_ of this eyerolling disgust) at her parents is an act. They are pretty lame and boring, but . . . well, Jenny will be glad to come over here and hang out. Mom and Dad really aren't that bad. Pretty good, actually. Except in public. Mom can act too intense and scary. And then Dad and all the stupid stuff he says . . . If she never actually had to be seen with them in public, they'd be 100% perfect.


	33. Terms of Endearment

Juliet takes sheets from the linen closet, pushes open the door to Jimmy's old room, and flips on the lights. She removes two black and white Crate and Barrel boxes from the bed, leftover remnants of Rachel's wedding gifts, she assumes. She makes the bed, all the while staring at the leftovers of Jimmy's boyhood. Rubbermaid boxes of Legos, hockey trophies, Little League photos. She's always trying to get him to take some of it to his place, but he says "Ma, I don't need that stuff," and she doesn't have the heart to throw any of it out. She can't completely let go of her little boy. She does, from time to time, stop by his apartment and drop something when he's not looking. She took a stack of baseball cards a few weeks ago.

It's not even his boyhood room (he was a sophomore in high school before they moved here), but she sits on the now-made bed and looks around. There's a toy light saber in the corner, a Tigers pennant on the wall, a poster of a Porsche on the back of the door. Her little boy's room. It all goes so quickly. Time. Her son's nearly twenty-nine years. Her sixty-seven. Sixty-seven years. It all goes so fast, even when thirty of those years are repeats.

A ringing phone rouses her from her maudlin thoughts on the passage of time. The phone keeps ringing. She stands, calls downstairs, "Anyone going to get that?" and gets silence in return. She's going to let voice mail get it – that ridiculously impersonal robot woman voice Rachel likes to imitate. Curiosity gets the best of her (who's calling at this hour?) and she dashes across the hall to grab the phone off the bedside table in the master bedroom.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mom. Dad told me to call to say I got home safe. So, here I am. Home safe."

"Who is this?" Juliet jokes.

"Funny, Mom. Unless you've got some other hidden daughter I don't know about."

_Uhm, no. _So when is that issue going to be dealt with? Ever? James can call the shots on that one.

"Can I ask you a question, Mom?" Rachel asks.

"Go ahead." Great. Just great. She'll answer what she can, of course. She figures they're going to spend months answering questions. It's just . . . so tricky of James to con Rachel into calling home, and then be conveniently unavailable to take the call. She takes a mental note to give him hell over this later.

"Was I an accident?" Rachel asks.

"_That's_ the question you want to ask?"

_WE TRAVELED THROUGH TIME. If you'd like, I can take you to any waiting room in any OB's office in the country and find an unplanned pregnancy for you._

"Well, one of them . . .yeah," Rachel admits.

"Uh, well, sweetheart, I mean, 'accident,' that's a term with all sorts of connotations that . . ."

"Stop it, Mom."

"Stop what?"

"That thing you do – where you don't answer straight."

"OK, well, you weren't planned, if that's what you're asking."

"Yeah . . ." she sighs. "Yeah, I guess I've kind of known that for a long time. All my life it seems, but, I don't know. Just wanted to hear for sure. You were OK with that and all?"

"I think of all the crazy stuff going on that fall, you were the one thing I _was _OK with."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Of course, yeah. I didn't know if I'd ever see your father again. I was living in the past. I had this awful job, but you . . . finding out about you felt kind of like putting on your winter coat on the first cold day of fall and finding a twenty dollar bill in the pocket."

"Dad called me an 'added bonus,' and now you're comparing me to a twenty dollar bill?" she cracks.

"They don't make million dollar bills, Rachel, and besides, only an idiot would leave a million dollar bill in her pocket." (Only an idiot would get pregnant on the hood of a Jeep on Maternal Death Island, and then not realize it for more than two months, but who's counting?)

Rachel asks, "Is that why you and Dad got married? Because of me?"

Juliet ponders the answer. She goes for the absolute truth, in the most deadpan voice she can muster. "Your father and I aren't married."

She can hear her daughter choke, sputter, "What? Not married?"

"Well, 'married,' what does that mean, anyway? It's just a word, and . . ."

"You're doing it again."

"OK, not legally, no. How could we swing that, Rachel? On paper, legally . . . we don't really exist. So, no, technically . . . technically, we aren't married."

"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard," Rachel states.

_Did we or did we not mention the time travel thing? Because I'm pretty sure we did. _

"Then there hasn't been enough crazy in your life," says Juliet.

"And you really were married before? Whoa. Mom? Is . . . is he out there somewhere? Your ex?"

"No. He got hit by a bus."

Rachel guffaws. "Funny, Mom. That was actually a serious question, though."

"And that was actually a serious answer."

"Oh. Shit. I mean, sorry. This was after you split up? Or did you still love him or . . ."

"After we split up, and yes, long after I still loved him. What's with this line of questioning? You've been worried about this your whole life?" Juliet asks.

Rachel says, "I don't know if 'worried' is the right term . . ."

"Now you're doing it."

"I learned from the best, didn't I? Anyway, I guess I always sort of thought you and Dad had to get married, and now I find out you were some kind of fancy doctor and Dad was an ex-con? What do you expect me to think?"

"I know it looks bad – what he did. But, sweetheart, your father is the best thing that ever happened to me. It doesn't . . . it doesn't. . ." _Huh. What she's getting ready to say . . . she hasn't thought it in YEARS. It's the way she's lived, but nothing that's even crossed her mind. _"It doesn't matter who we were. It matters who we are. And it would kill me if you have any kind of weird hang-ups about being conceived before we got married. If it makes you feel any better, technically, Jimmy falls into the same category."

Rachel pauses. "Oh my God, yeah. Oh, sweet. That's gonna really screw with his head."

_More than TIMETRAVEL TIMETRAVEL TIMETRAVEL TIMETRAVEL? ? ? ? ?_

Rachel continues, "And, no I don't have any weird hang-ups. It's just something I've always wondered."

"OK."

"So what about your sis. .. Oh. Hold on. Anson's pulling into the driveway now. Uh, Mom? What am I supposed to tell him? Is it OK that I tell him all of this? Any of it?"

"You tell him whatever you want to tell him, Rachel. He's your husband. Don't keep secrets if you don't have to."

"What do you know? You're not even married," Rachel snarks. And, oh, good. She can joke about it already.

"I'm your mother, you should do as I say. Besides, I've been very happily not-married for more than thirty years."

"Make sure you tell Dad I'm home safe. And Anson's here. Don't want Dad stroking out with worry or anything. He, uh, he . . . he told me about the baby. I'm sorry, Mom."

"These things happen. And, Rachel? Don't let that worry you. I was ten years older than you are now. You're OK? How do you feel? How . . ."

"I'm fine, Mom. Just fine. It's Dad you have to worry about. Why don't you tell him that? About the ten years older thing? I can already tell he's gonna be a basket case."

"You and I both know that once your father has it in his mind to worry or obsess about something, no facts are going to persuade him otherwise. Sometimes, they even make it worse, you know."

"Yeah . . . OK, Mom. I really gotta go. Talk to you later?"

"You got it. Love you."

"Love you, too, Mom. Bye."

She hangs up. That wasn't so bad after all.

The house is very, very quiet. How long exactly do they plan on living here, just the two of them? It's way more house than they need. She thinks of all their homes, their cozy yellow island cabin, the crappy efficiency apartment, the nicer two bedroom/full kitchen apartment, their standard suburban home in Ann Arbor, this too-big, too-fancy house. . . she supposes a tiny retirement cottage is probably next. Back where they started.

She heads downstairs to find her men and meets Jimmy coming up. "Your room's ready," she tells him.

"OK, thanks, Ma."

"I'm sorry about . . ." about what? Lying to him about their pasts? "… about tonight," she manages. What's she supposed to do now? Hug him good night? Kiss him? Pat him on the shoulder? Stroke his cheek? She still can't quite navigate this adult children thing. Just tonight she reached out to see a bruise on his face, and he jerked away.

Jimmy answers for her, though, by turning around, and then sitting down on the third step from the bottom. She joins him there, and leans her shoulder into his. He sighs deeply. "I even did Dad's ziti recipe, can you believe it?"

She leans away so she can look at him. Oh, dear. How much did he like her? Kate? Oh, dear. "Oh, Jimmy. How? I . . ., sweetheart, she's a convicted felon, for God's sake."

He snorts. "OK, A, that's why I didn't tell you guys about it, because I was sure you'd flip out. Rachel warned me about that. And, B, that's kind of a rich statement coming from you . . . knowing what I know now . . . Seriously, Mom? You got a problem getting romantically involved with convicted felons? Seriously? Glass houses, hello?"

"That's different," she says in a very, very small voice. And don't think she didn't catch that he'd told Rachel about Kate, leaving his parents in the dark. And didn't he already know about Rachel's baby? Before she and James did? Well, well, well. This . . . this pleases her. This sibling relationship. This is what she wanted for them. Wanted for them from the moment the idea of Jimmy popped into her head.

Jimmy says, "Don't worry, Mom. I didn't think it was actually going anywhere. She was fun, but . . . I was obviously her rebound guy. I knew that."

"You deserve more, Jimmy. Don't settle for 'rebound guy.'"

"It's OK, Mom. Really. I knew what I was getting into. And she is still clearly into that . . . well, hey. . . I bet maybe you knew him, huh?"

"Who's that?" she asks, trying to buy time, knowing who he's going to say.

"That doctor dude. Shephard? Uhhh . . . Jack, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I knew him."

"And?" Jimmy prods.

"And nothing. You asked if I knew him. Yes, I did."

"The lady doth protest too much. You're not telling me something, don't think I can't see it."

"OK, OK, OK. I guess there was a time . . . I . . . hell, Jimmy, I don't know. I guess I was sort of _his _rebound girl?"

"His rebound from who?"

_Oh for Christ's sake._ "From Kate. Because she and your father . . . well. Well."

Jimmy balls his hands into fists and grinds his knuckles into his forehead. "Damn. Damn. This is so weird. So weird. All of it."

Juliet just nods. It's less weird once you get used to it. But, yes, yes, it is weird. Her life has been mostly wonderful and deeply, deeply weird.

Jimmy says, "Kate said that he . . . the doc . . . he kinda went off the deep end for awhile. But, damn, she's still totally into him. Even though he, you know, crashed again." Jimmy has a puzzled look on his face, like maybe he's trying to work out the logistics of that. Comprehend the bizarreness of it all. Does she tell him Jack came back? Does he care? Does she?

Before she even gets her head wrapped around that, Jimmy's talking again about Kate. "I did really like her, Mom. I mean, I knew it wasn't serious, but she'd been through a lot, and, I don't know, just . .I felt like I could make her happy. I didn't expect it would last much longer, but, damn, wish it had lasted through tonight, at least."

She ignores that last bit. Ugh. Gross. All things being said, even Kate is a step up from that awful Tilly he was with. She gets a pang of fear - she needs to tell Jimmy something. He needs to understand. She turns to look at him. "Look at me, Jimmy," she instructs. "You listen to me. I have to tell you something. It's really, really important."

"Uhm, OK?"

"Whatever you do, never, _never_ settle for being second best, you understand me? You can be a lot happier alone than you can be with someone who doesn't treat you the way you deserve. You deserve the best, Jimmy. Got it? Don't ever think otherwise."

Jimmy nods. He gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing. Juliet keeps staring at him. He needs to hear this. She sees him with his father's easy self confidence, but right there . . . just right under the surface . . . you hardly have to scratch to find it . . . he has that unsure, timid awkwardness she used to have. He can't make the same mistakes she did. He just can't.

Jimmy asks, "You're kinda freaking me out, Mom. What's this all about?"

Then again, if she hadn't made those mistakes in the first place, she wouldn't be here now, would she? No, she wouldn't even be forty yet, but . . . but that's more than OK. She'd probably trade a hundred years for the life she has now. Thirty years was a bargain.

How does she explain? "I want you to be happy, Jimmy. I want you to be as happy as I've been. I don't want you to be a 'rebound guy' or any other thing. I want you to be . . ." She trails off, stifles a laugh, thinks of pre-teen Rachel. "Jimmy, you can be someone's 'dream guy,' I know it. I want that for you."

"You're worried I'm gonna go crawling back to Tilly, aren't ya?"

"Don't you dare."

He laughs. "It's OK, Mom." He pats her knee. She puts her hand over his and squeezes. "Dad's out at the pool," he says. "I think his knee's bothering him again, but he's pretending it's not."

He stands, and offers a hand to help her up. She takes it. She hugs him goodnight. "See you in the morning, Jimmy. Love you."

"Night, Mom, love you, too." He jogs lightly up the stairs, and she watches him go.

Downstairs, she looks out the window. Sure enough, there's James sitting by the side of the pool. Before going to join him, she opens the liquor cabinet and grabs a bottle of rum.


	34. Days of Their Lives, 1

**An ongoing work project has really, really dulled my brain. It even made slogging through this chapter seem more chore-like than it should have. Oh, those crazy dentists and their research. Death of me, I tell ya. Death.**

* * *

_**December 16, 1977**_

DeGroot keeps blah blahing on. James can't even begin to concentrate. Over to his left, in a small cubicle, there's a face he recognizes. That chick. Shit, what's her name? Juliet's roommate when they first showed up in Dharmaville. Ellie? Something? She's on the phone, but when she notices him, her jaw drops. She tucks the phone receiver against her shoulder and gives him a huge grin and a big thumbs up. She starts waving and pointing to the other side of the room.

He looks to what she's so madly pointing at and sees Miles. Ah, so that's where he got off to. Miles is desperately waving his arms, flagging him down, like he's at the scene of an accident . . . and, Jesus, his brain's slow, because James realizes now what that must mean. Who must be sitting on the other side of the cubicle wall Miles is leaning on. Please. Please.

His legs feel wooden and stiff. No, they feel the opposite of that. They feel liquid and unsteady. He has to get across the room as fast as he can to see her. No, actually, no. Because if he gets over there and finds out Miles is standing at Lara's cubicle or something, then . . . what? Then he pretends it's OK that she's gone? It's not OK. It is absolutely not fucking OK if she's gone.

So he walks as fast as he can as slow as he can across the room . . .

She's there. She hasn't seen him yet. He wants to say something perfect. He wants to tell her everything, every damn thing about her he's missed, everything he thought he might never see or do again, but it comes out, "Oh, thank fucking Christ. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

She looks over at the sound of his voice, and God, her eyes. They are the same as ever. Better maybe. He can't do anything but drop his duffle. Now that his arms are free, she jumps up to hug him. This is all he's ever wanted. What'd he ever do to deserve this?

Her hair feels just the same and smells just the same as ever. She's saying the exact same thing he is: "You're here, you're here, you're here," over and over and over, and her voice, forceful but quiet, almost a whisper, it is the exact same as ever. She hugs him closer, her hands against the side of his head, her palms at his temples, and they feel the exact same as ever, cool and strong and gentle. She feels the exact same as . . . as . . . as. . . as uh… holdonjustaminutehere. . .

What? How? What? He pushes back against her shoulders, and uhhhh. Jesus. His mouth has gone dry. It gets really hot in the room all of a sudden. No, it gets really cold. Or hot. One or the other. It. . . He pushes her away again, so they're no longer touching.

It's getting even hotter in here (or colder). He squeezes his temples with the thumb and fingers of his left hand. No, no, no, no, no. Oh, fuck, she must hate him. What the fuck has he done? He can't do this. This is more than he bargained for. Noooo. He's staring at the floor. He's going to pass out if it keeps getting hot and cold like this.

He says, "I think . . . I think . . . God, I think I gotta . . . I need to sit."

Juliet turns away to . . . to . . . what's she doing? Getting a chair for him. Good. _Thank you, thank you, sweetheart_, he thinks.

Then while he's collapsing into the chair these amazing thoughts fill his head. No, no, no, no, no? Why? Why does it have to be no? Why not yes, yes, yes, yes? She's here, and she seems happy to see him. She doesn't hate him. Yes? Yes. Yes! Yes, he _can_ do this. Yes he _wants_ to do this. More than he bargained for? That's right - he's getting more than he ever bargained for. He's getting more than he ever dreamed possible.

Even through the ringing in his ears, he hears Juliet say, "It's the sedative. Some people have more problems with it than others."

Is she fucking kidding? Is that really what she thinks the problem is? Because, because . . . because well, hold on, whatever it is, "problem" isn't the right word. "It ain't the sedative, Juliet," he gasps between big hyperventilating gulps.

No, no, "problem" is very definitely not the right word. "Miracle?" Well, fuck, no, that's a bit much, ain't it? But still . . .he's going to get to do this. He's going to get to do this the right way. He's not going to fuck this up. No, sir. Jesus, he thinks he may love that kid already. God, all he hoped was that Juliet would still be here. But this? The rest of it? It's kinda like an added bonus.

But really, how did this even happen? She was always so damn careful . . .

He notices Juliet at his elbow. "James," she says in that voice. God, he missed it. He almost wants to cry. She's here. He's here, and it's all going to be just fine. Better than just fine. She keeps on, "James, I'm sorry, I didn't know . . . when we left. And then . . . I wish I could have told you. . . I. . ."

He realizes she's worried, apologetic. No, she doesn't need to be apologetic. Anything but apologetic. He still can't quite look up. He doesn't want to pass out or cry in front of her (or Miles for that matter), but he wants her to stop worrying. He wants to protect her. He wants to be there for her - starting right now. He puts out a hand to make her stop talking. "It's OK," he whispers. "It's OK." He reaches out to hold her hand, and when she puts both of hers around his, he realizes he's going to be able to get through this without embarrassing himself more than he already has.

"Uh, maybe I should leave," Miles offers.

He hears Juliet say, "No, it's fine, Miles."

James' brain is still working all this out. How long she's been gone, and how could this happen when she . . . wait, hold on . . . he's trying to remember . . . He removes his head from his hands and looks over at her. Oh, fuck, he's just figured it out. He almost laughs. Instead he smiles at her and pulls her closer to him. She still looks a little unsure. "It's OK," he says, this time sure and steady. _I'm here. And I'm here for you. You don't got to worry about a thing._

"Yeah?" she asks.

"Yeah," he answers. "Yeah, God, yeah, of course, a million times, yeah. I just . . . God, thank God you're here." He leans in to her, and they touch foreheads. He's kinda gotta ask, because he thinks he's got it figured out. "Uh, so," he says. "That time . . . that time, you know . . . the Jeep, huh?"

She's laughing and nodding, and says, "Yeah." Well, damn. Damn. How un-freaking-comfortable that had been. But: good. Good. And memorable. He pulls her closer to him.

"Uhhhhhh. . . did I just hear right?" Miles says. _Oh, shit. Forgot he was still here. _"You did this in a Jeep?"

No. That's not right. Not _in_ a Jeep, dumbass. "On the hood, actually," James clarifies. Get it right, Oda Mae.

"This is some kind of joke, right?" Miles asks. James shakes his head. No, why would he joke about that? "Oh shit. Oh my GOD that is hilarious!"

Juliet is about as bright red as he's ever seen her, and well, crap. Why'd he have to go and say that? Why'd it seem so necessary to be accurate? Goddamn you're a dumbass yourself, LaFleur. He tries to smooth over that mistake, saying, "Ignore him, he'll forget about it soon enough." And then "I love you," over and over, kissing her and thinking, _Miles better forget about it soon enough or I'm gonna kill him_.

He kisses her, and even her mouth tastes the same, feels the same. She starts making a humming sound in the back of her throat, and really it is … almost, almost the same. But better. Definitely, definitely better. He runs his hands down her side, stopping at her stomach. Jesus. His heart lurches a little bit, but in a good way. A little like that buzz at the top of the roller coaster, when you realize there's no turning back. He rests his hand there, and totally misses her flinch, misses her pursing her lips. Misses any kind of sign, especially when distracted by . . .

"LaFleur! There you are! Wondered where you got off to." The fuck? He stops kissing Juliet long enough to look up and see whatsisface, DeGroot, who at least has the decency to acknowledge his intrusion. "So sorry to, uhm, interrupt. Could you, ah, come with me? Won't take but a few minutes."

"Sorry, chief. No can do."

DeGroot stands straighter, blinks a few times. He's used to getting his way. "Well, now, I think that . . ."

Juliet interrupts. "It's OK, James. Go ahead. I'll wrap up here and be ready to go when you're finished."

"Nuh uh."

"No, look, next week is Christmas break. I'll get everything shut down here, and we can go, OK?"

Not OK. Does she really think he's going to let her out of his sight? Except she stands up, starts stacking papers behind her desk, and she's studiously not looking at him. Or, no, he's just imagining that. He gets up, follows DeGroot. James walks, craning his neck around, looking back at her. She's biting her lower lip, looking anxious, but waving him on.

* * *

DeGroot has all sorts of questions about what happened on the Island, what's happening now, and James does his best to explain all that's going on, who didn't make it, what started the whole incident (leaving out any part that shows him in a bad light). He's jittery and restless, bouncing his leg up and down against the floor.

"And I'm sure Horace explained to you that once you made the decision to leave, we can no longer keep you in the Dharma Initiative's employ?"

"Yeah, boss, sure. Yeah, he explained all that." _Don't matter, because we're from the future: I'm going to make a killing in the stock market._

"Horace always spoke highly of you. You did an excellent job for our organization. If you'd like, I can make a few calls to campus security. I think they'd be pleased to have a man of your caliber. We can't keep you here, but I know you're anxious to support your family."

Uh, not really. Got that stock market thing lined up, except. . . well, doesn't he want to do this the right way? Doesn't he want to teach his kid about the value of hard work? About being a decent, contributing member of society (as long as said kid never finds out the truth about him)? Then again, he also wouldn't mind being fabulously fucking wealthy, and hey now, why's it gotta be one or the other?

"Jim?" DeGroot prods.

"Uh. Yeah, yeah. I think I'd be interested in that, if you don't mind. Think they may have a spot for my buddy Miles?"

"Let me see what can be arranged."

James is more than a little anxious to get back to Juliet, so he slaps his hands on his thighs. "That it? I got more important things to get back to, you realize."

DeGroot laughs and nods. He stands up and offers his hand for a shake. "Well, welcome home, congratulations, and Merry Christmas." Pretty simple statement, really, but, damn, it hits James: has anyone ever had anything so good to say to him? It's not pretending anymore. Home, holidays, family . . . None of his crappy life matters anymore. James had one miserable, twisted, fucked-up childhood, but starting right now, that don't matter none. 'Cause his kid is gonna have everything, every damn thing, he never did.

Miles and Juliet are waiting at her cubicle, talking easily and laughing. When she sees him approaching, she gets a serious look on her face. It lasts only a second, though, when she smiles again. What was that about? Nothing, nothing.

"You guys look like you could use a good meal. There's a great Italian place around the corner," she says.

Miles nods eagerly, "I think you may've just read my mind," he says.

_Not mine_, thinks James. Really? Dinner? With Miles? Really? Except, well, God, yeah, they haven't had a decent meal in _months_.

"Sounds great," James agrees. It's not exactly what he wants to be doing now, but fine.

He takes her hand and they walk to the restaurant. Miles keeps up a running commentary, mostly humorous, of amazement at the Seventies landscape they find themselves in. James keeps casting sidelong glances Juliet's way, sharing secret smiles at Miles' expense.

In the restaurant, the hostess escorts them to a booth, but Juliet's eyes go a bit wide, and she shakes her head nervously. She asks for a table, and the hostess complies. _What was that about?_ But before he has a chance to think on it, they get menus. Holy crap, he's hungry. He looks to Miles, also ogling the menu. Real food. Real fucking food.

"I think we may be in heaven," Miles whispers, licking his lips.

"I think you may be right," James agrees, taking Juliet's hand, and giving it a squeeze. She smiles, and is it just his imagination, or did that not reach her eyes? No, no, he's paranoid, and here's the waitress with a basket of breadsticks. He thinks he can actually hear his stomach grumble in response.

Once the waitress takes their orders, Juliet starts asking questions, and Miles and James answer as best they can. Their trip to see Richard, the white flash, how Jack and everyone else got flashed out. To when? Don't know. Jin? Gone too. How that magnetism went wild. How they fixed it. "That whole button pushing thing? My idea," James brags.

Juliet explains what she's been up to: "Typing," she says. "No. Seriously. That's it."

"Yeah, and growing a human being," Miles adds. James grins at that. Juliet blushes, then wonders aloud where their food is. Miles keeps on, chuckling, and saying something about a Jeep.

Juliet's gone all red again. "I thought you said he'd forget about it," she says, joking, but also kind of not.

"Give him a few weeks to have his fun," James says, then glares over at Miles. _Knock it off, retard._

When the food comes, she teases them about their appetites. They explain their Island situation. Miles says, "I'm pretty sure LaFleur here woulda French kissed Radzinsky just to get some potato chips." James nods guiltily. Juliet laughs.

The bill comes, and Miles and James share an alarmed look. A bill. What the fuck are they supposed to do with that? Juliet pulls a wad of cash from her purse. James can't help but say in wonderment, "Holy shit. This is it, huh? Real world?"

"Real world, 1977 style," she says. Then, "Miles, do you want to come back with us? Do you need a place to stay?"

The hell? He throws an alarmed look Miles' way. _No, no, no, you son of a bitch, do not take her up on that offer._ Miles shakes his head subtly in James' direction, catching on.

"Thanks," he says, "but no. I guess it's winter break here? They've got a dorm for us." He glances at his watch. "I'm supposed to be back to the Dharma building in about 10 minutes."

"You want us to walk you back?" she asks.

"Uhm, no. That's fine. I can handle it." He turns to James with a confused look and shrugs his shoulders. OK, so James isn't imagining things. Miles sees it too. What's going on? Just readjusting, right? Yeah, they'll get some alone time, and everything will be just fine. Just fine. Please.

Her place is just a few blocks from the restaurant. He asks about the safety of the area. How she's been feeling. When the baby's due. What's her place like. She answers all his questions, just . . . not quite. He's starting to feel angry. This is the old Juliet. The one he couldn't stand. Or, the one he could stand, just once he figured out what she was all about. The one who'd let you in, only not all the way. Never all the way in. Not the open, honest, sincere one who left the Island five months ago.

* * *

When she unlocks the door to her place, and he steps inside, he has to laugh. "This is it?" he asks. She nods, smiling (a real smile, and OK. Maybe everything's going to be OK). "You actually invited Miles back to share this place with us tonight?"

"Well . . ." she trails off, blushing. "Let me show you around."

_Shouldn't take long_, he thinks.

Half an hour later, she's shown him the leaky hot water tap in the bathroom ("Just leave a washcloth against it"), how to fix the shower curtain so it doesn't mildew ("I've replaced it twice already"), the wobbly book shelf ("Don't put anything here. It'll fall off and wake you up in the middle of the night"), how to get ABC reception ("Turn the rabbit ears like this. You'll have to move it back if you want to get CBS"), the dresser ("If you want, I can clear space for you right now"), the temperamental thermostat ("If it doesn't kick in right away, flip the switch a bunch of times till it does") . . . until his mind is swimming in the minutiae of this tiny place.

Every so often, he reaches out to touch her, take her hand, or put a hand on her hip or shoulder, but she seems to always twist just out of his reach. He's starting to get mad, has long since gotten insecure . . . She's had five months. Five months to come to her senses and realize she can do so much better. What they had, on the Island, it was just playing house wasn't it? She doesn't need him in the real world.

So, of course, he gets testy and swaggery and obnoxious and crude, flopping down on the mattress she's got on the floor. "Baby, I don't care about none of that shit." He pats he mattress. "What I want is you . . . down here . . . now." Probably a bad move. That makes it worse. She stands there twisting her hands and looking very, very uncomfortable. She points back at her "kitchen."

"Can I just, uhm . . . I probably need to show you. . . I can show you, uhm. . ." She clears her throat, and starts again, not stammering this time. "I think I should show you the toaster. It can be tricky."

"What the fuck?" he barks. He's tired, disoriented, riding an emotional rollercoaster, and she's trying to explain a tricky toaster to him? She jumps back at his outburst, but recovers quickly, her face turning stony. Well, crap, if he's gonna ruin everything, why not go all out? He stands up, approaching her. She backs up a few steps, and she actually looks scared of him. Fuck. He doesn't want that. He softens. "I'm sorry. Sorry. It's just . . . I ain't plannin' on makin' toast any time soon. It took you half an hour to show me this one-room joint. And I don't think it's just my imagination. Every time I touch you, you back away. Tell me what's goin' on. You want me to leave? You've come to your senses? Don't want me around your kid? What? If you want me outta your life, just tell me."

Because, see, it's _his_ life, and the way _his_ life works, it means all this mysterious behavior is due to the most awful, terrible thing he can possibly think of: she wants nothing to do with him.

Her eyes have gone super-wide. "No!" She gasps in surprise. "No, of course, none of that! No. What. . . what . . . what. . ." she stammers. She squeezes her eyes shut, and gets it together. "What on earth would make you think that?"

He tries to keep his voice calm and soft, but it comes out more kicked puppy than he intends. "Then tell me what's goin' on. You're actin' weird."

She gets out "I . . ." before shutting her mouth. She looks off to the kitchen (presumably in the direction of the tricky toaster). She looks back to him. "I just . . ." she starts and stops again. When she finally gets going, it all comes out in one expelled breath. "It's been five months, and, for me, you know, it's been pretty subtle, day by day, but for you, I realize, well, of course, I just feel a little awkward, you know."

Uh. Huh. That didn't help at all. What's been subtle? Her realization that he's a worthless shit? That "Jim LaFleur" is just a big fucking lie?

"Awkward," he repeats, as if saying it will help him understand. "Awkward about what, pray tell?" he challenges. _I ain't letting you off so easy. I'm gonna make you come right out and say it._

She shakes her head, raises her eyebrows. "About my body?" Like she's talking to an idiot.

He is an idiot. He is. Because the first thing he thinks … Well, the first thing he thinks is what the _hell_ is she talking about? Then the next thing is to wonder if she's got some oozing rash somewhere he ain't seen yet. And then, again for good measure, what the _hell _is she talking about?

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Uhm? I'm pregnant?" Still talking to him like he's a complete moron.

He blurts, "Knock me over with a feather and call me Aunt Shirley! I was wonderin' about that. So, it's true, huh?"

She laughs, covers her mouth, gets her serious face again.

"That's it? That's what's bothering you? Really?"

She crosses her arms over her chest, grips her upper arms. "Yes," she says, very firm, very sure.

He stands blinking. His brain is trying to process this while also coming up with the appropriate response. First reaction is to say something like he wouldn't care if her skin had suddenly turned green. He doesn't care. He doesn't fucking care. All he wants is to get her into . . . well. Well, no. He can't say that. And while it's kind of, mostly, true, it ain't entirely about getting her into bed.

Then he hits on saying he knows lots of guys who're in to pregnant women. 'Course, saying it like that implies he's _not_ one of those guys. Which is true. . . he's just not. The thought of it always kinda creeped him out, making out with some broad while this reminder of some other guy she was with is just, you know, right there, in between you and her, even. No thank you. Gross and creepy. Then again, that's not at all the case here . . . that's _them_ right there. That's _them_ that will be between them. That's . . . that's . . . that's actually kind of cool. That's actually maybe the coolest thing . . . ever.

"Aren't you going to say something?" she asks.

He used to always know exactly what to say to get a woman into bed with him. Words were his forte. He is, maybe for the first time ever, at a complete loss for words. He has nothing smooth, nothing smart, nothing sarcastic, just nothing.

So, seriously and slowly, he shakes his head. He steps toward her and rests his hands over hers, still on her upper arms. He pries her fingers loose, then starts kissing her. Her hands go to his face, his hair, his upper arms. He's backed her into the wall, kissing her more deeply now, trying to get closer . . . and, that's as close as he's going to get, right there, because, sure enough, her belly's in the way. She realizes it, of course, and he can tell, because her lips and tongue still underneath his. Her eyes have gone wide with . . . alarm? Fear? Embarrassment? What?

Whatever it is, there's nothing he can say to make it better. Because he can't think of anything, other than to keep going, keep kissing, move his hands to her hips, turn her from the wall, lead her toward that mattress over on the floor. It works. She starts kissing him again.

Falling onto the mattress, while kissing and groping and undressing would be awkward even if one of them wasn't six months pregnant, and they laugh together at the absurdity of it. They stop laughing long enough for her to settle on top of him, and OH LORD, I _don't deserve this. I don't deserve any of it._ She feels so damn good. So damn perfect.

He looks up at her as he begins moving his hips. What he's thinking? It's the whole purpose of life, ain't it? Pass along your genes to the best mate you can find? This is what he wants to show everybody who's treated him like shit, no better than dirt on the shoe, his whole life. Mr. Sawyer who swooped in and blew up his family. His own damn father who didn't think twice about leaving little Jimmy an orphan. And, yeah, even his mother, sainted in his memory, who probably didn't give Jimmy a second thought when she hopped into bed with another man. His relatives who passed him around like a hot potato. The guidance counselor who told him he'd never amount to anything. Every cop and parole officer and C.O. who turned up their noses and acted like it pained them to speak with him. Jack. Kate. Sayid. Any of 'em. Fuck them. Juliet's better than any of 'em, smarter, better looking, and she gets him. She. Gets. Him. She thinks he's worthy.

He smiles up at her, and Jesus Fucking Christ, she's gorgeous. And feels soooo fucking good, and he jerks his hips once, and . . . and, oh holy hell. Oh fuck. That had lasted . . . 10 seconds? Maybe? Oh fuck how embarrassing.

He raises his right hand to his face, covering his eyes with his palm. Juliet is motionless above him. He can feel her knees against the sides of his ribcage.

She breaks the silence with, "Uhm?"

He feels like a fifteen-year-old boy. God, seriously? That was it? Shit. His face burns with shame. He feels her hands on his, prying his hand from his face. She's smiling at him, half a smirk, and she says, "Does my memory fail me, or did it used to last longer than that?" Little Miss Smartass is back.

"Just didn't want you bein' the only one to feel awkward, is all," he says. Yeah. Yeah, the fast talker, the quick thinker, is back, too.

"Sure," she winks at him, smirks.

He puts his hands on her thighs, still on either side of his chest, and squeezes gently. Her smirk turns into a shy smile, and from that to a serious stare.

He picks up his right hand and places it, fingertips only, on her belly. She visibly stiffens (would that he could right now) and breaks eye contact. He keeps his hand there (it's a lot firmer than he thought it would be), though, until she looks back at him. When she does, he flattens his hand out, and uses his thumb to trace circles around her belly button.

"I remember very clearly you sayin' it was gonna be OK," he says.

"I really thought it would be."

He shakes his head, places his left index finger against her lips. "Shhh. It is OK. It's better'n OK. Probably not want you meant, but . . ."

He sits himself up. As much as he can, at least, and it's not much, so he pulls her off him, and twists them around, so they're lying next to each other.

"Guess I gotta be the big spoon for awhile, huh?"

"Hmmmmmm," she sighs, snuggling into him.

He smoothes the hair off her temple, and kisses her gently there. "Give me half an hour? We can give it another go?"

"I don't know," she says. "Friday nights at 10, I watch _Quincy_."

"Jesus, 1977."

"You get used to it. Kind of."

Cuddled up together they talk. More details than they shared at dinner with Miles. How James slept with a flip flop for two weeks (same one he threw at her head to wake her up that last morning), how Juliet bopped along in ignorant bliss until she realized she was pregnant; how the Island ran out of food.

She's explaining about all the awful, boring stuff she's typed, telling him about finding his reports, teasing him about his handwriting, when she grabs his hand and places it right on top of her belly, right underneath a boob, and _sweetheart, sorry, not quite ready yet_, and oh! Oh!

"Feel that?" she whispers,

He nods, because he can't find his voice. When he does, he murmurs "I love you," in her ear. "What is that?" he asks.

"I think it's a foot."

"Coolest thing ever."

"For you, maybe."

The baby stills. James asks, "_Quincy_, huh? Quite the wild and crazy life you got goin' here, Blondie."

"We just missed _Chico and the Man_. Actually, the Red Wings may be playing tonight, so there's that to watch, too."

"Since when do you care about hockey?"

"Just trying to fit in." She turns to face him and strokes his cheek. "OK, turn that way for a sec," she says.

"How come?"

"I need to pee, and I don't want you watching."

"What, you just gonna squat over there in the corner or something?"

"No. I don't want you watching me try to get off the mattress. It's awkward and embarrassing."

"Oh great, this again," he scoffs. "This why you didn't want a booth in the restaurant?" She nods. He doesn't move.

"You're not turning around?"

"Nope."

"You're impossible."

"We met before, right? This surprises you?"

"Fine." She levers up on her arms, and swings her legs off the side. She starts scotching closer and closer to the edge, and yeah, it does look more than a little awkward. He gets up then, stands on her side, and offers a hand. It's actually pretty smooth with the help.

They stand, nose to nose, unclothed. He says, "Hurry back, think I may be ready for another go 'round." She walks over to the bathroom, and he calls out, "You know you could just get an actual bed. This place could use some sprucing up."

* * *

When she returns, he helps her back down to the mattress, and yeah, yeah, he's ready. This time he makes it last longer . . . a whole lot longer. At one point he has to recite to himself the World Series participants in the 1980s, because that's partly how he's gonna make a shitload of money but mostly because if he thinks too much about that bead of sweat running down her chest, or the way her hands feel on his chest, or the little sounds from the back of her throat . . . well, long lasting is the goal here, so 1983? Orioles, right? Yeah.

They spend the rest of the night getting to know each other in every way possible. Catching up on what they missed, exploring their bodies, both familiar and new, and drifting off to sleep in the hours before dawn.

* * *

_**December 17, 1977**_

He's slightly confused when he first wakes up. A wave of panic. Where is he? What is this place? It dissipates, though, when he sees who's next to him. She's asleep still, resting her cheek on her hands, breathing slowly and evenly. Her face looks different than it used to, fuller, but remembering last night's awkwardness conversation, he knows he can't say that to her. But she looks really, really good like that. Softer maybe, or, no, not softer, but certainly less severe. Not that he ever thought she looked severe. Or, well, he did, didn't he? Once upon a time . . .

Once upon a time . . . happily ever after . . . made-up fairytale clauses for a fairytale life he probably doesn't deserve, but he needs to do everything he can to make sure this works. Besides, Miles gave him a 48-hour deadline.

Juliet wakes. "Hey," she says, sleepily.

"Hey back."

She reaches out a hand to stroke his cheek. "I thought maybe it was all a dream."

"Don't think I'm the kinda guy girls dream about," he says.

"You're the guy I dream about," she says, rubbing her thumb just under his eye.

He reaches up to hold her wrist, kisses her there, and down the inside of her forearm. Miles gave him a 48-hour deadline. He's still got time.

He doesn't even have to recite World Series winners to himself this time. He just waits until her forehead starts to furrow up like it used to, like it always has, like . . . like, if he's lucky, it will for the rest of his life.

Her face, resting on his chest, is still damp, but he's running out of excuses. Forty eight hours, but no sense waiting till the last minute. "Got somethin' for ya," he says, sitting up, and shifting her off him. He reaches out for his duffle, unzips it, and starts rooting around. All the extra clothes he brought for her. He holds them up, considers making some smart-ass remark, stops himself. He finds the little velvet bag. His fingers don't work right, trembling and stiff at the same time. He can't manipulate the little drawstrings. When he finally does, he turns to her with the ring between his thumb and forefinger. Shit. Hasn't figured out what he's going to say.

She see's what he's holding. She sits up, snatches the sheet, and clutches it to her chest. She's shaking her head, rapidly and subtly, so it looks like twitching as much as it does a head shake.

"Uhm," he starts. She stops him, holding out one hand, like a traffic cop. She puts the other hand over her eyes, she's got the sheet pinned against her side with her underam.

"No, no, no, no, no," she whispers, and the fuck? Is it any wonder he's been too chickenshit to do this? "James, no. Put that away. I'll pretend I didn't see it."

He is tired of being chickenshit, so he ignores her. "Juliet, will you marry. . ."

"Stop. Stop." She's still not looking at him. "Neither one of us has on a stitch of clothing, and we're lying on a mattress on the floor of a studio apartment." She takes her hand from her eyes to look at him. "It's not hypothetical to say we're going to have a child who one day asks us how we got engaged. I don't want this to be our story."

He shifts the ring to the palm of his hand and closes his fingers over it. All right. All right. OK.

"You're not just doing this because of the baby, are you?" she asks.

_Of all the ridiculous things._ "Yeah, I been carrying that thing around on the off chance you get knocked up."

She inclines her head toward him, conceding the point. She kisses him. "You're a very sweet man, James Ford."

Her kiss swiftly turns from chaste to something more, her tongue skimming over and under his upper lip. So, of course, the phone rings. She pulls away, but he pulls her back. "Let the machine get it," he says.

"It's 1977, James. There is no machine." She starts up with the awkward arm levering, bottom scootching, get-off-the-mattress routine.

"Oh, for Christ's sake. We're getting a bed," he grumbles. He gets up, dashes to the phone. It's Miles. Of course. _Of course._

"Kinda busy, man," he tells his friend.

"Yeah, doing what?" Miles asks, full of false innocence.

Juliet's off the floor finally. She gathers a bundle of clothes, and lets herself into the bathroom. She pantomimes taking a shower. James can hear the water go on. He can hear Miles chattering away. They make plans to come get him for lunch.

"Hey, remember the ring?" Miles asks.

"Fuck you, Miles. See you at 12:30." James hangs up.

He shimmies into his jeans. He pokes his head into her mini-fridge. He hears the water shut off in the bathroom. He takes a few slugs of milk directly from the carton. He hears her blow dryer start up. He hears it go off. He stations himself at the door to the bathroom.

She first seems startled to see him standing there, but instantly softens and smiles.

"All dressed?" he asks.

"Ye-es?" she answers in two syllables. "Is that a trick question?"

"Look, I get what you were sayin' before, but we ain't nekkid anymore, and I been waitin' since May to get this done and I ain't messin' around with some silly surprise manufactured scenario, so . . ." He grabs her left hand. "Just put on the damn ring."

She jerks her hand away. "Wow. Very romantic. No."

She's looking for "romantic"? This is the woman who insists Valentine's Day is the lamest holiday going? Who thinks February 14 should be excised from the calendar?

Nah, she don't really want "romantic." She _thinks_ she does, but she doesn't. Not really. Here . . . he'll prove it.

He gets down on one knee, rolling his eyes as he goes. The eye-rolling is in part to conceal a grimace he can't quite contain. Those damn Dharma workboots. No give to 'em. Patrols shot his knees all to hell.

She wants romantic? She fucking wants romantic? He takes her hand. He begins, "You are the sun and the moon. You are the sweetest sugar. My world spins for you, my sweet, sweet, beautiful, perfect princess. And I love you forever and for all time. Make my world complete by doing me the honor of being my wife."

"Oh, for crying out loud. Get up."

"Thought you wanted romantic." Really, he didn't. He knows she hates that shit.

"Romantic, yes. Not . . . not . . . whatever that was." She shudders. She starts to help him up.

"Wait, no," he says, still on his knee. "OK. Listen, I got this thing back in May, and I never said one thing about it. Like an idiot, I just kept it up under the floorboards. I guess part of me thought I didn't deserve you, and I don't know . . . asking you to marry me . . . I, well, I was scared, OK? But then you left, and I spent every single day. Every single fuc…" he trails off. "Every single day, beatin' myself up over that fact. That I'd been too scared to just say what I wanted and what I felt. And I swore that if I saw you again, I wasn't gonna be too scared. You gotta know, I don't take this lightly. I just want you to know . . . to know that I'm in this for good. And it ain't 'cause we're stuck in 1977, and it ain't 'cause of the baby, and it ain't 'cause I got something to prove. It's because I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I want you to have this. Please."

Pheeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. Phew.

She stands with her mouth hanging open, her right hand over her heart. When she closes her mouth, he sees her chin tremble, and then she wipes away a tear. She starts nodding rapidly and subtly, so it looks like twitching as much as it does a nod. "Yes," she says in a whisper. "Yes, yes, James. Yes."

He puts the ring on her finger. Phew. Phew. Now's probably not the time to tell her that he's not entirely sure there's any way they can actually, legally, get married. That can wait. She pulls her hand away to stare at the ring. "It's gorgeous," she says.

"It's tiny, I know."

"It's perfect."

He wants to stand and kiss her, except, well. "Can you, uh, can you help me up?" Maybe this campus security job will be easier on his knees.

She helps him up. "When I said 'yes,' I didn't know I was getting an old man with creaky knees," she says.

"Lemme get this straight: It's OK for you to make fun of my physical shortcomings, but yours are completely off-limits."

"Sounds about right," she says. "Besides, _I_ had nothing to do with you getting creaky knees. _You_, on the other hand, had _everything _to do with me getting pregnant."

"Nuh uh. Had it on strictest assurances from some self-proclaimed 'expert.' Said it wasn't gonna happen."

She looks again at the diamond shining on her hand. He gets weird and uneasy again.

"You sure it's OK?" he asks.

She nods with tears filling her eyes and leans in to kiss him. The phone rings again. Fucking Miles.


	35. Interlude, Juliet, 1994

_**October 26, 1994, Ann Arbor, Michigan**_

Juliet pulls into an empty space and cuts the ignition. Cold descends almost immediately. It's not even Halloween yet. Not too many more Michigan winters, she doesn't think. They're going to move to LA. Because they've always wanted to move some place warm, and because, apparently, they always _did_ move to LA. She thinks. It's where Old Man James seemed to be from, where her grant money came from.

They're anxious about uprooting the kids, though. When they approached them about it, they seemed to take the news in stride. "We'd be like Brenda and Brandon Walsh," Rachel suggested.

"A," said James, "Brandon and Brenda were from Minnesota, and B, you better not get yourself mixed up with any Dylan McKay wannabe."

Jimmy and Rachel went slack-jawed. "How do _you_ know so much about _90210_?" Jimmy asked.

Juliet piped in, "Oh, I used to love . . ."

They all turned to look at her, the kids in surprise, James in warning. _She used to love _90210_ and _Melrose Place_ as study breaks . . . _

"I, uhm . . ."

"This about that boy you had a crush on in high school?" James swooped in to the rescue.

"Oh, yes. He looked just like Luke Perry does. That's true." (Not true at all.)

So, LA it is. Just when, they haven't quite figured out. It's bound to be warmer there. She blows on her hands. She knows she should get a move on, go on in. He's waiting on her. Make him wait. Make him wonder. Serves him right. Besides, she's got things to ponder.

Microsoft Public Affairs called yesterday wanting to do a piece on the "Michigan housewife" with the affinity for tech stocks. It involves a trip out to the Microsoft campus in Redmond, and that's very very appealing. Even so, the whole thing makes her ill at ease. Of course she can't go there. Of course she can't appear in their press releases or internal newsletter. Of course not. Can't risk that.

Besides, what would she tell them? What made you think Microsoft was worth backing, ma'am? _I'm from the future_.

Although it didn't turn out to be as easy as all that. Well, Microsoft was a no-brainer. James did it without telling her, even. It's been the rest. It's one thing to know the future, it's another thing to know exactly when things are going to happen, get in on the ground floor, get out before the bottom drops out. Figuring that stuff out has been her "career," and truth be told? She's _loved_ it. It's a great grand puzzle, and it's not a lot different than her research or fixing cars. But, no, she can't make herself a cog in Microsoft's public relations machine. Too risky.

All right. Better not keep him waiting any longer. He'd called when she was halfway to the rink, taking advantage of their oh-so-novel "car phone."

"Ma, can you go back to the house? I left my helmet chin strap."

She'd started in on how he's fourteen, and he needs to start taking better care of his stuff. "One day, Jimmy, you'll be an adult, and aren't going to have me to bail you out of every little thing. In fact, maybe I shouldn't get your chin strap. Teach you a lesson."

"Mom, puhleeeeeeeze. Coach won't let me play if I don't have my chin strap."

She'd conceded, but she knows he's in the rink, waiting, waiting, waiting . . .

She grabs the chin strap from the passenger seat. Notices the rolled up Porsche poster lodged between the seat and center console. Better remember to give him that tonight.

Earlier in the week, she'd been horrified at the poster on the back of his door: shiny red Porsche with some scantily clad (practically topless!) buxom blonde draped all over the hood. Not in her house. No. She ripped down the poster, and took it downstairs to tattle to Jimmy's father.

"Look what I found in your son's room," she shook the poster in James' face.

He appraised it carefully, then had the nerve, the utter nerve, to start singing. Singing! In a ridiculous exaggerated falsetto, "Mem'ries. Light the corners of my mind. Misty water color memories. . ."

She'd stormed off, wadding up the poster, and tossing it in the kitchen trash. Then, "It was a Jeep, James. Not a Porsche, get it right."

When Jimmy got home, he complained he'd bought the poster with his hard-earned lawn-mowing money, and so she bought him a replacement. Just a car. And when James got off his kick about "buxom blondes on car hoods" (which lasted at least three days longer than she had patience for), he gave Jimmy a nice little talk about how he has a sister and a mom, and likes girls at school, and "we don't treat women like objects to be ogled" and et cetera. James probably didn't believe the half of it, but he wants Jimmy to believe it, so, good.

She just can't forget to give Jimmy the new poster. Wants no opportunity for him to buy his own replacement.

She dashes into the rink, pulling her cardigan tighter against the chill. Here next to the ice is even colder. Her fingers shrink, and her rings clink together. How her children can stand this cold . . .

She scans the clump of boys in the corner of the ice. Jimmy's half a head taller than anyone on his team, so she spots him easily and catches his eye. He smoothly skates over, slides at the boards, sending up a spray of ice chips. She hands over the chin strap. "I'm not kidding, Jimmy. Next time you forget something, that's it. You need to learn."

"Sorry," he mumbles, taking the chin strap from her. He takes off his helmet and buckles his strap.

"Is Dad here yet?" she asks. Jimmy points to the arena's upper level. James was planning to come directly from work, grumbled all day yesterday about how he's too senior to get a Saturday shift, and maybe he should just quit. He bribed someone into taking the last part of the shift so he could make it in time for the afternoon game.

Jimmy re-affixes his helmet, rolls his neck around a few times. "Thanks, Mom," he smiles at her, to where she can see his dimples. Never able to stay mad at those for too long.

"Have a good game, sweetheart," she says.

"It's a match, Mom. How many times I gotta tell ya?"

She watches him skate off, and heads for James' seat in the upper level.

James spots her on the aisle, and takes his coat from the seat he's saving. Jason's mom, Daphne, is sitting two rows in front of him. She's wearing some ridiculously tight, low-cut top. It's cold in here, and it's totally obvious that Daphne is cold. James hands Juliet a cup of hot chocolate as she takes her seat. _What did I ever do to deserve this man? _She takes a sip of the warm liquid. Even so, she can't help but grumble "highly inappropriate," under her breath, indicating Daphne.

James, as he has for years, says, "Hey, like I always say, 'if you got it, flaunt it.'"

She's irritated enough at the cold, at Jimmy, at the fact that they have to move to LA, just because they already did. Just because she's pissy, she says, "Daphne Ryan doesn't have _it_," pleased that the ambient noise in the arena allows them to talk about Daphne in a tone just above a whisper.

"Have I ever said she did? I'm just speakin' in hypotheticals. Hypothetically speakin', if someone, hypothetically, had _it_, then, hypothetically, that person should flaunt it."

Juliet pulls her cardigan tighter. "Speaking hypothetically, it's freezing cold in here, and if this hypothetical someone wanted to flaunt it, then she would never do it at a teenagers' hockey game. Hypothetically."

"Fair 'nuff. Maybe she'd just save it for her husband later that night."

"Are we still speaking in hypotheticals?"

"I'm speakin' in whatever results in me gettin' laid tonight."

"Then keep talking, because this isn't doing it."

He laughs. "But the hot chocolate? That was a nice gesture, right?"

She bumps his shoulder. "Good point."

"I tell ya what. Not sixty yet. Long as I don't need those little blue pills, I'm gonna get what I can get."

She whispers, "Good thing you don't need them, seeing as they haven't been invented yet."

He nods. "Speaking of, have you ever . . ."

She interrupts. "Yeah. Pfizer, I think. Well, I'm pretty sure. It's a blood pressure drug right now, and according to my research, they may get FDA approval for a clinical trial for 'alternate uses' soon. Anyway, we've got 500 shares."

"Good girl," he says.

They watch the boys finish their pregame skatearound. Daphne notices Juliet and turns to participate in some small talk. God, her top is inappropriate, but, otherwise, Daphne is a nice-enough person. Right in the middle of some minor discussion about trash day being changed in Daphne's neighborhood, Daphne squeals in delight. James and Juliet snap their heads back in alarm, glance at each other in amusement. Thursday trash pickup must be a really, really big deal for Daphne.

They realize that she's squealing at and now waving both hands at a woman standing at the end of her row. The new woman sidles up to the empty seat next to Daphne. They hug and squeal more. James, Juliet, and the trash day discussion completely forgotten.

New Woman puts her coat over a seat. "Randy's parking the car," she says. (Randy is Mr. Daphne, his position on Daphne's inappropriate attire unknown, but oft-debated, between the senior LaFleurs.)

The boys skate out to their places.

"Which one is he?" New Woman asks. (The boys _are _hard to tell apart when they're helmeted, shoulder padded, geared-up.)

"Number 47," Daphne answers, pointing to Jason at the face-off circle.

"Girl, what are you feeding that boy? He's gotten HUGE!" (Fourteen-year-old growth spurt. Jimmy had it, too. Probably grew more than a foot in a year).

"How long has it been?" Daphne asks New Woman.

"Easter," she answers.

"More than seven months," whistles Daphne. "Too long. Oh! Juliet, I'm so rude. Sorry," Daphne turns to James and Juliet now. "This is my sister, Trish. Trish, Jim and Juliet, their son is the tall boy there at center ice."

Polite handshakes all around. "You'll have to excuse us," Trish says. "We haven't seen each other in _seven months_. You probably think we are the most horrible sisters _ever_. Seven months! Can you even believe it?" Daphne and Trish giggle, link arms. Juliet's mouth goes dry.

James covers with a hearty, "Life sure does get busy, don't it?" And everyone's attention turns back to the game, match, whatever . . .

Daphne and Trish talk and laugh and giggle and share photos from their purses and act generally very long-lost sister-y.

"We can change seats if you want," James whispers.

Juliet swallows the lump in her throat, shakes her head, needing a second to find her voice. "He won't know where we are," she finally chokes out. They have to sit in the upper level. If they sit in the lower level or too close to the bench, that is Totally Embarrassing. Only the Totally Embarrassing parents sit on the lower level. Even so, Jimmy has to know where they are, because whenever he does anything good, he looks to see if they're watching (even though they are hockey idiots, and pretty much only understand scoring a goal as a good thing).

Rachel went through the same Let's-Pretend-You-Don't-Exist-in-Public (Unless I need you to bring me something like missing hockey equipment or give me a ride) phase. It's starting to abate for her, but when she went through it? Oh, Juliet stuck her foot in her mouth but good.

The whole thing had confused James to no end. "It's like, A-OK when we're at home, or oh, Dad, give me a ride to the movies or whatnot, but soon as that posse a girls is around? It's like she'd prefer if we just disappeared off the face of the Earth."

"She's thirteen, James. She'll get over it. I mean, don't you remember how embarrassing your parents were when . . .Oh, God. Oh, God. I didn't mean that. I . . ."

_This is all new to him_, she thought. _Wow. He doesn't know this is how normal thirteen year olds feel about their parents. _

"Hey, it's OK," he said, reaching out to take her hand, make _her_ feel better, as if _he _was the one who just brought up the horribly awful no-good past.

She squeezed his hand. She told him, "All I'm saying is this is a good thing. This is her being a normal thirteen-year-old girl. It's what we wanted."

He grinned then. "Yeah, yeah it is."

Now Jimmy is going through the exact same thing (not quite as bad, though, Juliet doesn't think), and James is taking it in stride. Anyway, if they move seats, Jimmy won't be able to find them when he does something important like "dump the puck off in the neutral zone" (maybe?) or "crosscheck the defenseman" (right?). He'll babble about this stuff all the way home, and neither one of his parents are ever going to really get hockey figured out.

As it turns out, he scores the winning goal, with only seconds left to go in the match, and that – _that_ they can appreciate. He raises both arms over his head and smiles so big it looks like his face will split open. All the other boys surround him, and James and Juliet clap and cheer and whistle and "WOOOO HOOOO!" (James, at least), and oh, oh, Juliet wishes her sister could be here to see this.

James_ says _Miles dropped him off, and _says_ he needs to ride home with them. Juliet can't tell whether he's lying, making excuses to be with her and hold her hand the whole way home. She knows he's trying to make her feel better. Jimmy keeps up a happy stream of chatter from the backseat. "And did you see in the second period? Did you see that high stick that blueliner gave Jason?" His parents nod along. "And then that pass at the start of the third . . ."

Dinner is a normal affair. Kids making plans for their Saturday night. Each wanting to invite friends over to spend the evening in the LaFleur basement rec room. Juliet just listens, unable to participate. God. God she misses Rachel so much.

Not, of course, the Rachel with the ridiculous purple hair who says, "Jimmy, know what Jen told me? She said that Michelle told her that Sara told _her_ that she thinks you're kind of cute. And she came to the match today. She said she thought it was kinda hot when you slammed that guy into the boards."

"Really?" Jimmy asks, eyes glowing.

"Wait. Hold up," James interrupts. "Ya lost me. Which one of them girls thinks Jimmy is cute?"

"Sara, Dad. Try to keep up."

James grumbles, a happy, pretend grumble. Then, "Now listen up, Jimmy boy. You gotta shower more often, 'k, buddy. Girls like it when ya smell good. Not too good, though. Too much cologne and stuff . . . nah, don't overdo it."

"OK, Dad," Jimmy smiles and rolls his eyes.

"Oooooh, Dad. Mr. Casanova, I'm so sure." Rachel teases, smiling across at her dad.

"You'd be surprised, sugar pie, you'd be surprised."

"Mmmmm hmmmm," she fake agrees, laughing. Jimmy starts in with his excitement over the hockey game. Match, whatever.

No one notices Juliet sitting silently, not participating (or if James notices, he doesn't make a big deal of it). When she feels she can get away without raising the kids' suspicions, she excuses herself.

She shuts herself away in her bedroom, sits on her bed, and just _loses_ it. Out and out weeping, because she misses her sister so so so very much. It's not fair. It's not fair that her kids don't have anyone to embarrassingly remark over how tall they've gotten. It's not fair that they don't have grandparents to spoil them for a weekend, or an aunt to tell their secrets to, or cousins to spend the holidays with. It's Not Fair. And it's not fair that Juliet can't share their triumphs and heartbreaks.

Miles is the closest they've got. His inability to let go of the Jeep thing aside, he's been wonderful. Absolutely wonderful, but it's just not the same. It's not. It's not.

She guesses she hasn't cried like this since the fall before Rachel was born. Oh sure, when she was pregnant with Jimmy, she could get randomly weepy over Hallmark or long distance phone commercials. Sure. But she woke up every morning with her husband's arms around her and spent the days chasing a toddler around. No time or reason for flat-out weeping. And when they lost the baby a few years after that, she was too physically wrecked to really lose it. Just kind of a low wave of sadness. By the time she felt better physically, well, she had diapers to change, and preschool drop offs, and feeding her family, and washing markers off the walls, and endless laundry, and back to the investment puzzle career. All of which led to the nagging, guilty, horrible feeling that maybe it's best they just have the two kids?

Then, life. Life keeping her too busy, life keeping her too happy. This weepfest has been building up for a while.

She's past the gasping gulping hiccupping stage when James peeks his head around the door. He slides into the room, closing the door behind him. "I got the household staff cleaning up the kitchen," he says. "Some bickering about whose turn it is to load the dishwasher, but they're on it. You OK?"

She uses the backs of her hands to wipe tears from her cheeks. "I'm good. Great."

"Thought so. You crying up here all by your lonesome was the first clue."

She laughs, then starts crying again. He comes to sit next to her on the bed. He takes her hand and says, "I ain't an idiot. I know what's botherin' you. Just wonderin' if there's anything I can do about it."

She shakes her head. She says, "Our life is really good. The kids are . . . they're_ amazing_. And . . . life, life has been really good."

"Yeah. Yeah, put it that way and I can see what you're boo-hooing about."

She smirks at him. "She always worried about me. Always wanted me to be happy. Even when she was at her sickest, she'd lie there while they pumped the chemo into her, and she'd lecture _me_ about trying to be happy. . . I . . . I wish she could know."

"How old is she now?"

She doesn't hesitate. She always knows how old Rachel is. "Twenty six."

"Ever thought of goin' to see her? I mean, I know when we first got back, she was just a kid, but she's old enough now, and you look enough like you used to. She'd know it's you. You could explain to her."

"I can't. I can't. She gets her first diagnosis in four years. I can't go see her and not tell her that."

"Maybe it's your chance to warn her."

"Then what? She doesn't get cancer? That's not what happened. What if I change things? What would happen to the kids? I can't lose them. I can't do that to them."

He relents. He's sometimes as scared as she is. Everything has to happen the way it always happened. If only they knew what always happened. . . They figured out about the grant back in the spring, and it makes them both so nervous.

James pats her thigh. He says, "Got a bunch of kids coming over tonight. We gotta start comin' up with our excuses to check in on the basement every so often. I don't want any funny business goin' on under this roof."

"You don't? I'm sorry, I was unaware of that rule."

"It only applies to those under the age of fifty," he winks at her. He's halfway out the door when he points at the phone. "You should crank call her," he says. "Call 411, get her number, tell her you're a telemarketer or something. You could hear her voice." He shuts the door behind him.

She stares at the phone. Should she? Yes. Yes. Scared she's going to lose her nerve, she dials information, gets the number. The operator gives her the area code and the first three digits, and the rest come flooding back. The number is so familiar. OK. OK. With a hammering heart and trembling fingers she dials.

"Hello?" Rachel answers.

Juliet closes her eyes, puts her palm to her forehead. _Hey, Rachel. It's me. I've missed you so much. _"May I speak with Rachel Carlson, please?"

"Speaking."

"I . . ." Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Should've planned this out better. "My name is . . ." clears her throat. "My name is ... Daphne LaFleur ... and I'm calling from the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor Department of . . . Research."_ Real good, Juliet. Real good. _

"Mmmmm hmmm?"

"We're conducting a short survey, and have just a few questions for you to answer, if you don't mind." OK, she's on a roll now. "We use a five-point Likert scale where 1 means you strongly agree and 5 means you strongly disagree. Do you understand?"

There's an extended pause. Finally, Rachel says, "What did you say your name was again?"

"Daphne LaFleur."

"_Daphne LaFleur_? Daphne. LaFleur. That is the lamest, the absolute lamest, fake name I've ever heard, Juliet. Next time you crank call me, at least make the effort to disguise your voice."

Juliet breaks into a wide grin. She has to stifle a laugh. Still, she can't let on. "Ma'am, there must be some . . ."

"Stop it, OK? Look, I get it. I get it. I'm sorry we had that fight, but someone's got to tell you the truth, so here it is. Last time I'm gonna say it. You're almost twenty three. Twenty three. There's a whole life out there, and this isn't it. He is arrogant. He is pompous. He has no sense of humor. And he's going to be bald before he's forty. AND! And! You will never be able to wear heels ever again. Think of that."

Juliet squeezes her eyes tight, practically strangles the phone receiver. _I'm almost fifty three. Fifty three. My husband is James, and if you met him, you'd think he was a hick and a loudmouth, but he's neither of those things. He's one of the smartest people I've ever met. He's wonderful, and you'd love him. I named my daughter after you. She's sixteen. Her hair is purple right now, but otherwise she's gorgeous, and smart, and so funny. She reminds me of you, sometimes. My son is fourteen and everyone says he looks just like me, but he looks like his father when he smiles. He's taller than me now, and today he scored the winning goal at his hockey game. I'm almost fifty three, and you wouldn't believe how wonderful my life is. And I wear heels whenever I want (not often, but we do have date nights). Please. Please somehow get what I'm saying to you._

What she actually says: "I think you have me confused . . ."

Rachel scoffs. "There's someone better out there for you. I know it. Not sure who, you giant blonde freak. We're still on for the movies tomorrow, right?"

Juliet is going to laugh. Her cheeks hurt she's smiling so hard. "I apologize for the misunderstanding."

"OK. Whatever you say, sis."

Juliet slaps down the phone and starts laughing. Peals of laughter. She grabs a pillow to cover her face, and falls back onto the bed, shaking her legs and laughing. Laughing.

Rachel and Young Juliet will go to _Pulp Fiction_ tomorrow, and Rachel will call her Daphne. She'll call Young Juliet 'Daphne' for about a month, and Juliet will never understand. Until right now. Whatever happened, happened.

Time to get up and start being a member of her family again.

Rachel's at the top of the stairs when Juliet comes out of the bedroom. Rachel says, "Jimmy wants to know if he and Brad can play games on your computer . . . " Then suspiciously, "Why are you smiling like that?"

She holds Rachel's shoulders. "Because your dad is brilliant. He is a brilliant, brilliant man."

"OK. Whatever you say, Mom. So, Jimmy? Computer games?"

"Tell Jimmy he can ask me himself."

Rachel turns towards downstairs, shouts, "HEY JIMMY! MOM SAYS ASK HER YOURSELF!"

Juliet closes her eyes, holds out a hand "I didn't mean . . ." she starts, but is too happy to reprimand. She kisses Rachel on the forehead, a big, exaggerated smack, and starts down the stairs. Rachel skips off to her room.

Juliet meets James coming up. Kissing him, she asks, "That rule about funny business? Over fifty still exempt, right?"

"Yeah. Why? What? Why're you so cheery all of a sudden?"

"I called her, James. Just like you said. I called her." She actually squeals a little bit.

He's smiling at her. That same goofy smile he gave her when she delivered Amy's baby, when she told him Jimmy was coming, when they had their first million in the bank . . .

She grabs his face to kiss him.

"Ain't ya gonna tell me about the call?" he asks against her mouth.

"Later," kissing him.

"Ahem! Outta the way! Coming through!" Rachel announces from the top of the stairs.

James and Juliet break apart. James' face grows serious. "Nuh uh. Nuh uh." He's waving an index finger up the stairs. Juliet turns to see Rachel, wearing . . . well, it's a top Daphne Ryan would approve of. "Nope, nope, nope, nope," James keeps on, wagging his finger. "Turn around, little girl, and put on somethin' different." He points towards her bedroom.

Rachel purses her lips. "Daaa-ad. Come on. If you got it, flaunt it, am I right?"

_Oh now this should be interesting_. Juliet's on James' side, as far as changing tops goes, but this is fun, hearing his words parroted back to him like this. He clenches his jaw, and she can see the muscles working in his check. He narrows his eyes, huffs out a snort.

"Fine," he bites out. "Fine." He steps aside and waves her down the steps. Rachel's eyes widen in surprise, but she flounces down the steps in triumph. Juliet is getting ready to step in, when Rachel reaches the bottom step. James says, "Oh, forgot to tell ya. I've gotta reorganize the bookshelves in the basement. Think I'll do it tonight. It'll be fun. I been storin' up all sortsa jokes and humorous anecdotes I think your friends'll really appreciate."

Rachel turns to glare at him, an icy stare from underneath purple bangs. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"And if I change shirts?"

"Well, then, I'm sure I could figure out something to occupy my time with upstairs."

She gives him the side-eye, throws up her hands. "Fine! Fine. You win." Up the stairs she goes, down the hall, slamming the door to her bedroom.

"All your fault, you know," James accuses Juliet.

"How in the world is that my fault?"

"Just sayin', she didn't get those things from me."

Juliet rolls her eyes. If he's trying to goad her into a fight, it won't work. She's in too good of a mood. "Well, when I was her age, these things" she's in such a playful mood, she actually grabs her chest in both hands, "I thought these things were horrible and mortifying, so that 'if you got it, flaunt it' attitude? All you, buddy. Allllllllllll you."

"Fine," he grunts. He's not looking at her. More accurately, not looking at her face. She realizes, belatedly, that she's still holding herself, and he's got his eyes locked in at boob level. He murmurs low, "So, we're still on for some funny business later?"

She lets go of her boobs, pats him on the cheek. "My goodness! You, sir, are the world's biggest hypocrite, you know that?"

"Well aware," he notes.

She heads on down the stairs. "Yes, we're still on," she calls back up to him.


	36. The Kids Are All Right

James hears the sliding door open behind him. He knows it's Juliet before he sees her. He can smell her lotion or shampoo or whatever it is that makes her smell like that. You'd think he would've gotten it figured out after all this time.

She sits next to him at the pool deck, rolling up her yoga pants, dipping her feet and calves in the water. Before she even looks at him, she hands over a bottle of rum. He chuckles. "Memries. . . light the corner of my mind . . ." he sings to her, and she rolls her eyes. He takes a drink, hands the bottle back. She drinks.

They've been wondering about tonight for more than thirty years. Wondering if they'd ever have to come clean. Wondering if they'd be believed. Wondering if their kids would hate them, forgive them, understand them . . .

Juliet says, "Rachel called. She's home, and Anson was there." James nods, reaching out his hand for the bottle. He takes another sip. Juliet continues, "Apparently, her big concern is that she was an accident."

James snorts. "Yeah, well, his worry," he uses his thumb to point back at the house, indicating Jimmy, "was that I cheated on you." He hands the bottle back. Juliet takes a swig. They stare at each other, shaking their heads in wonderment.

James slaps his hands on his knees. "What the hell's wrong with them? Jesus! We're motherfuckin' time travelers . . ."

"Well, _you _are," Juliet interrupts, smirking, handing over the bottle.

_That doesn't even make sense . . .oh! Heh heh._ "Ain't you clever. How long you been thinkin' up that line?"

"About thirty years, I guess."

He gives back the bottle. He rolls up his pants, sticks his legs in the water, too, resting his right foot over her left.

She takes a drink. She isn't looking at him when she says, "I think we did it. I think they're OK. They're going to be all right. I think we did it."

"Did what, exactly?" he asks, taking back the bottle, taking one last swig, and setting it behind him, out of easy reach.

"We wanted them to be normal, be well-adjusted. So, that time travel business, that doesn't concern them. No big deal. They just want to know their life is the same. That we're still who we always were . . . to them, not to anybody else."

"Still, come on . . . time travel! You'd think they'd be a little more excited about that."

"Maybe we should've led with the flaming arrow attack," she suggests.

"Yeah, or Hugo in that van." He hears her giggle at that suggestion. He continues, "Or when we took out those guys at Amy's picnic." Silence in response to that suggestion.

"I don't think I want them to know I . . . we . . . killed anyone," she whispers.

"So you ain't goin' for complete honesty, then?"

"I don't want them to know." Decisively. No doubt. That's that.

He's OK with that decision. More than OK. He figures he's not completely done bridge repairing with his kids, and the less the bridge gets busted down, the better.

He takes her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss. "We did a good job with them, Blondie," he says.

She looks over at him, cocking up an eyebrow. "You haven't called me that in years," she says.

"Yeah, well, I's gonna go with 'Granny,' but didn't wanna ruin the mood."

"Oh my goodness, can you believe it? Grandparents? I. . ." she loses her voice.

He grins. "How the hell are we old enough? We ain't even s'posed to be forty yet. Still though . . ."

"Yeah," she smiles.

"Now, not that I ain't excited about this, but . . . still . . . that Anson boy? I'm well aware of what might or might not've been goin' on behind closed doors," he shudders. "Now, though, I gotta admit that it has happened, for real, honest-to-God evidence, right there in my face. That sonofabitch. Messing around with my daughter like that. You know he's gonna be all proud of himself, like 'Yeah, yeah, my boys can swim.' Fucker."

Juliet squints at him. "I'm sorry. I thought you_ liked _him."

"I _do_ like him, I just don't like the idea . . . well, least he had the decency to marry her first."

Juliet blinks at him a few times, mouth hanging open. "Are you _trying_ to be a hypocrite?"

"Naw. I'm serious. Why? What? Why're you lookin' at me like that?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, I'm just thinking about how pleased my father would've been at this situation I've managed to get myself in."

He snorts. "Yeah, but you gotta admit, it all turned out pretty great in the end."

"It turned out _mostly_ great," she amends.

"Mostly, yeah," he sighs. He steels himself for what he wants to ask next. He reaches back for the rum bottle he hadn't put quite out of reach. He takes a swig. "Now the truth's out, you gonna try to see your sister?"

"You gonna try to see your daughter?" she challenges.

"See her at least once a week, sweetheart."

"You know what I mean. Are you?"

"I asked first."

"I . . ." she trails off, She looks down into the pool, swishes her legs back and forth. "I don't know . . . I mean, look at me."

He does. The moonlight shines on the water, reflecting on her face along with the shimmery pool lights. _She looks beautiful_, he thinks. And not with that "for her age" amendment he uses most of the time. He knows she uses it for him, too. They _do_ look good – for their age. Right now, though, he thinks she looks beautiful. No matter what her age.

He remembers the shock that first night back in Dharmaville. She smiled at him and agreed to stay, and _holy shit_, he thought, _she's gorgeous_. He hadn't noticed till right then. Really. Not because he thought she was a bitch (or had once thought that). He was more than capable of separating looks from personality. Plenty of women he couldn't stand who also happened to be knock-outs (Shannon, to name one). Just, not Juliet. He simply . . . hadn't noticed. Too busy? Preoccupied? Who knows what. But she looked at him with that huge smile, and . . . _Jesus, how had he not noticed_?

"I'm lookin' at ya now, and I think you look beautiful," he says.

She smirks. "Thanks." She doesn't seem to believe him, explaining, "I have a head full of gray hair, and old lady hands."

"Your hair is silver. And gorgeous." He smoothes a hand over her head. She leans into him. "And, hate to point out the obvious, but you are, in fact, an old lady."

"You sure now how to charm 'em."

"Wanna know when I thought you were most beautiful?"

"I'm almost scared to hear," she says.

"Give me a little credit. I don't got my mind in the gutter all the time." He hands the rum back to her. "It's a tie. One is watching you sleep that first morning I came back from the Island. Jesus, I thought, 'If I play my cards right, I can wake up next to this every morning.' Second is . . . remember when Rachel walked for the first time?"

"Of course I remember."

"God, she walked over to you, and you looked up at me . . . this smile. . . I . . ."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Why?"

"I mean, I was excited and all, but mostly I remember I was trying desperately not to barf. Ugh."

He laughs. "Oh, yeah. What was it? Potato salad?"

"Jimmy more than the potato salad, but yeah, that's right."

Rachel was a late walker. Thought that meant they had a cautious one on their hands. _Wrong._ Not cautious, just late for everything. She was practically walking already, just always holding someone's index finger in a tight grip, never quite letting go. They were loading up the car for some kind of Fourth of July shindig.

"Dammit. Forgot the potato salad," Juliet said. James offered to go up to the apartment and get it. "No, no. It's OK," she said.

He stood at the car, Rachel's death grip on his finger, waiting. Juliet came out, and Rachel let go and went toddling over to her. Juliet held out her arms for her, looked up at James and smiled (he'd of never guessed she was trying not to barf). This enormous, genuine, proud smile. One of those moments where "I don't deserve this" practically came out and whapped him over the head.

The worst of those was his forty-seventh birthday. The absolute, most-perfect day ever. Jimmy and Rachel arguing over who got to help Daddy blow out his candles. He let them both help, blowing spit all over the icing. Juliet giving him an autographed copy of _Of Mice and Men_. Even Miles got in on the act, giving him some cushy new patrol shoes (just what he needed, and no, that's not sarcastic). The four of them sang Happy Birthday to him, and Jesus . . .

In bed that night, he was flipping through his new book when Juliet sidled up in some sheer silk number. "Anything else you might want for your birthday?" she cooed in his ear.

"I . . . I don't deserve this," he murmured.

"I haven't agreed to anything yet," she said.

He pushed her away, and sat up to look at her. "No, no I don't deserve any of this. You know how . . . what . . . you know what I did, who I was . . . I don't . . . I don't deserve this life."

She looked away from him, stared real hard at a toy lightsaber on the floor. "I don't think life is about getting what we deserve," she said in a quiet monotone. She looked right at him then, and _what the hell was wrong with him, turning down a roll in the hay for some philosophical discussion?_ She continued, "Life is about what we get. Did you _deserve_ what happened to you when you were eight?"

He ran his hands through his hair. Objectively, no, of course not. But that's not what he'd spent his life thinking. He'd spent his life thinking that somehow it was all his fault. He'd been too much of a coward to stand up for his mom. Or, maybe if he was a better little boy . . . easier to raise . . . minded better . . . maybe his parents' relationship would've been better . . . maybe his mom wouldn't of slept with another man. Maybe his dad would've been home more.

He said, "I always kinda thought . . . I don't know . . . somehow some of it_ had_ to be my fault."

She put a hand on his cheek. "I know you did." She traced circles on his face with her thumb. "I used to wonder how in the world you could think that way. It seemed so illogical. Now I think I've got it figured out."

"Yeah? How so?" He leaned his head over to rest his cheek more fully on his hand.

"You were eight. I don't think eight-year-olds are the world's most logical people."

Rachel would be eight in a few months. The thought that something like that could happen to his sweet, sassy, precious little girl . . . he almost started crying right there. Instead he closed his eyes for a little bit. When he opened them, he composed himself, and threaded his fingertips under the spaghetti straps at Juliet's shoulder.

"Why do you even bother with this?" he asked. "Ain't the whole point just to take it off?"

"Well, I . . ." she started to answer him, but he slipped the strap over her arm, dipped his head to kiss her shoulder, and she shut right up. That night he started to think less and less about what he deserved.

Two years later, the summer Jimmy was eight, James let it go completely. His skinny, happy, innocent little boy. He cried when his team lost a Little League game, but a trip to the ice cream parlor with his dad made it all better. He still let his mom kiss his away his boo boos. He spent a good part of the summer digging for dinosaur fossils in the backyard. He was eight, and it astounded James how young an eight-year-old boy actually is. How trusting and naïve and loving . . . The thought that an eight-year-old boy could've had anything to do with the horror James experienced, could've done anything to stop it . . . Jesus Christ, no wonder the rest of his life had been so fucked up.

The anniversary of his parents' deaths, he climbed to the top row at the Big House, stared down at what looked like football players in miniature running drills.

If anything even remotely close to what happened to him happened to his kids . . .

How could they have done that to him? His own parents? Mr. Sawyer was a sleazy, evil, sonofabitch, but he didn't pull the trigger. James' dad did that. James' mom was the one who made the choice to cheat . . . he'd spent his whole life blaming the wrong people – himself, Mr. Sawyer, when maybe his own parents were to blame.

It was the last night he ever questioned what he deserved.

His life now - amazingly well-adjusted, happy, normal adult children, still in love with his wife, fancy house, tons of money . . . who knows if he deserves it, but he's worked for it, and it's just about perfect.

Except Juliet's never seen her sister again, and he's never met Clementine. "I wish our life could be perfect, instead of just 'mostly great,'" he admits, holding out his hand to take back the rum.

She considers that before answering, "I don't know . . . too perfect, and I'd start to worry it's not real. It's all a dream I'm gonna wake up from and find myself trapped back on that Island again. Or worse." She drinks again, and hands the bottle over.

"What could be worse?" he asks.

"Good point," she smiles at him, and, God, she IS beautiful. In this watery, dim light, she could easily pass for early 50s. In any light, she looks ten years younger than she actually is. But, ten years younger is still twenty years older than she's_ supposed_ to be, and there's the rub. Her _older _sister is closer to Rachel's age than she is Juliet's.

And if she's too chicken to see her sister? How can he not be scared shitless to try to see his daughter?

All this craziness, Rachel and Jimmy seem to be taking it in stride. Maybe they'll forgive him. Seems like they will. Of course they will. He wiped their butts and their noses. Rocked them to sleep, carried them on his shoulders. Took their training wheels off, taught them to swim. Ferried them to games and lessons and recitals. Laid down the law when they were teenagers. Cheered at their graduations.

He's spent their lives banking goodwill. Clementine, though . . . who knows what shit Cassidy's told her about him? Nothing good, if she's bothered to talk about him at all. And what, he's just supposed to show up out of the blue, a time-traveling old man ex-con deadbeat dad?

Fuck, if Jules don't have the guts to show her face to her sister, how the hell's he supposed to have the guts to meet his daughter?

She puts her head on his shoulder. "We'll figure it out," she says, reading his mind, maybe.

* * *

**I realize this "side" of the story has totally slowed down, but there had to be some fall out/rehashing. You don't tell your kids you are a time-traveling doctor/felon duo, and then just move on with life! But, now that it's all out, we can move along with actual plot. Like, you know, do they or do they not reunite with Rachel and Clem?**


	37. Days of Their Lives, 2

_**December 17, 1977 (continued)**_

Juliet holds out her hand to look at the ring. It's so simple and thoughtful and sweet. What in the _world _made him decide to get this in May? And what in the world kept him from giving it to her in June and July? She blinks away tears, and even through tears, the ring sparkles just so.

She wipes the tears from her cheeks. Maybe that's what's going to jar him into reality – her ability to cry at the drop of a hat. He'd come back, and she'd been so thrilled to see him alive, whole, here . . . and NOW. She'd just let the euphoria take over. Until reality set in. She'd been so scared that he'd stop just being happy to see her, and start figuring it out . . . this baby is _real_. This is _real_. Reality. Maybe when he watched her awkwardly try to slide into a booth (so she nixed that idea). Or definitely when he saw her naked (so she invited Miles back), or maybe now that she's weepy.

She looks at her beautiful, precious diamond ring, though, and remembers how he was with her last night, and decides that, no. No, he is well aware this is reality, and he's actually happy about it. He seemed so desperate for her to say "yes." Truth be told, she's ambivalent about the idea of marriage, anyway. Her parents were married, _she_ was married, _his_ parents were married . . . yeah, marriage in and of itself guarantees exactly nothing. But he seemed to need the encouragement, the solidity. And right now, she doesn't have the heart to tell him it probably doesn't matter. How are they supposed to get a marriage license? They can't actually get married. He's happy now. She can wait to tell him.

He hangs up the phone. "Gotta go get Miles for lunch," he informs her, coming close, putting his hands on her shoulders, then running his hands down her arms. She gets goosebumps.

"Mmmmmmmm," is all she can reply. Do they really have to go get Miles? Can't they stay here and spend the day in bed? Yeah, yeah, OK, awkwardness forgotten.

He kisses her on the forehead. "Now, what's a man gotta do to get some freakin' toast around here? I been on food rations for months, and all I want is a measly piece a' toast. Just last night I's askin' and askin', 'please tell me how this toaster of yours works,' but noooooooo. . . it's all 'Kiss me, James. Hold me, James. Make love to me, James.' Jesus! Can't a man just get a piece a' toast?"

She laughs before leading him to the kitchenette. She puts two slices in the toaster and shows him that the lever on the toaster won't stay depressed unless you put something heavy on it. "This vinegar bottle seems to do the trick." She depresses the lever and leans the vinegar bottle against it. "Or, you can just sit and hold it down yourself. I don't recommend that method. You do have to watch, just to make sure it doesn't burn."

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but they stand watching the toast.

A minute passes, and James says, "Uh, do you think maybe . . .well, it wouldn't be weird or nothin' if I, you know, talked to it?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, I tried that. God, one morning I was so tired and sick, and all I wanted was a piece of plain toast. This is before I figured out the vinegar bottle trick. I must've called it every curse word in the book. Flipped it the bird, too. No, talking to it doesn't work. Just put something heavy on it."

He crosses his arms, looks impatient. "I didn't mean the toaster, Braniac. I meant the baby."

"Oh!" She might cry again. Why did she doubt how he would take this? Why did she doubt _him_? "Of course you can," she says. She rubs her belly, right where she last felt an elbow or foot or hand or something. "Hey, baby," she coos. "Your daddy wants to talk to you." She looks up to James then.

"Jesus," he gasps. He runs a hand through his hair. "Jesus."

Great. She did it. Reality just set in. He's going to turn tail and run.

"God," he says. "Damn. This is real."

DING! DING! DING! DING! Yes, yes, it's real. Thank you for playing, and it's been nice knowing you. We have some lovely parting gifts. Here's a crappy piece of shit toaster. Have a nice life.

He's still leaning against the counter, though. Hasn't run out, leaving a James-shaped hole in the wall. He reaches out a hand, and she thinks he wants to hold hands, but he keeps reaching, sets his hand on the spot she just rubbed on her stomach. _Ohhh-kayy. Stop worrying about him. He's here. He's staying._

"I, uh . . ." he looks like a deer caught in the headlights, though. "I . . .uh. . .don't got any remarks prepared or nothin'. I . . ."

"It's not like she knows any words, James. Just let her hear your voice."

"Her?"

"I don't know, I just think, maybe . . ."

He crinkles his nose. "What the fuck is that smell?"

She notices, too, and spins around, back to the counter. "Dammit. We let the toast burn." She uses tongs to remove to blackened, smoking, charred toast tiles. "Dammit," she repeats, dumping them in the trash.

"Hey, Blondie," he starts, and she can tell by the way he's stretching out the vowels that whatever comes next is going to be delivered in the extra-hick voice he uses to make fun sometimes. "I realize I ain't edumucated or nothin', but don't ya think the solution is to get a new fuckin' toaster?"

"I guess," she mumbles. Doesn't he know? This isn't permanent. They can't stay here – now – forever. It's _1977_. This is temporary. They're going to get back to their right time. They are. After the baby comes, after Dharma says it's safe to go back. They aren't staying here forever. They just can't. She says, "Well, what about Fruit Loops for breakfast? I have Fruit Loops."

He agrees. "Quick, though," he says. "I'm ready to go back in there." He tilts his head in the direction of the mattress. She giggles at him like a teenager, and like goofy kids they down their Fruit Loops. They giggle their way through their crunchy sugar and milk.

He reaches the bottom of his bowl first, tilts it up to drink the sugary fruity milk, sets it down, and drops his spoon back in with a clatter. "Magically delicious!" he claims.

She finishes her cereal, shaking her head. "That's Lucky Charms."

"Whatever. Let's go." He stands, reaches out an arm to help her up, pull her toward him and maneuver her into the other room. Not like him to miss a pop culture reference. Clearly his mind's elsewhere. He's kissing her neck, and no no no no, she does not mind that he got his cereal ad lines mixed up.

If she'd known how much time she'd be spending down on this mattress, maybe she would've gotten an actual bed. But, like the toaster, this is temporary. This is make-do. Otherwise, her baby's going to graduate from high school right around the time she graduates from medical school.

* * *

They're more than twenty minutes late getting Miles for lunch. He's sitting on a bench outside the Dharma building, with his arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. When they stroll up, he over-obviously checks the face of his watch.

"Sorry," James says. "Lost track of time."

"Fancy that," Miles replies.

"But check it out," James says, holding Juliet's left hand out to Miles.

"Well you finally fucking did it," Miles says, making Juliet wonder exactly how often James and Miles discussed this while they were stuck on the Island. Miles smiles at her and offers a hug, which she accepts. "Congratulations," he says, genuine and sweet. Then he turns to James and they do an awkward handshake, back slap, hug thing.

"Why can't you two just hug each other like normal people?" she asks.

Miles shakes his head vigorously while James answers, "Don't want to seem gay or nothin'."

"Right," she says. "Good point. I'd see you hugging Miles and that's exactly what I'd think. You two are idiots, but I'm glad you're back." She links arms with both of them, feeling, for once, totally, unequivocally happy. For now, this instant at least, it doesn't matter that it's 1977.

She takes them to a burger joint just off campus, and marvels again at their appetites. They talk more about what happened, what Miles and James were doing when the flash went off, the people who were killed in "The Incident," as Dr DeGroot has been calling it.

An hour later, the guys are groaning, bellyaching about not being able to eat another bite while occasionally munching on fries. "Well, listen, this has been great, but I'm gonna get out of your hair," Miles says.

"It's fine, Miles," Juliet says, and not because she needs him as a buffer, but because she worries about how lonely and isolated he must feel. "We can go to the movies or something." James nods agreement.

"OK, I wasn't gonna say anything," Miles says, holding up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Buuuuuutttt . . ." he stretches the word out.

"Just say it, Enos," James commands.

"You two are fucking gross," Miles admits. "OK? And it's cool, I get it, you got catching up to do and yada yada yada, but it's gross, and I've had enough." He scoots back his chair and stands up, dropping a wadded up paper napkin on the table. "The way you keep looking at each other and holding hands, and like touching and _rubbing_ each other . . . disgusting." He sticks a finger down his throat, fakes a gag. "So I'm gonna give you your space." He turns to walk away and is a few feet from the table when he turns back around. "Not too much space, though. I'll call tomorrow."

He's out the door when Juliet turns to James. "I don't think we're too gross," she smiles at him.

"I don't care," he says. "And, let's get outta here quick, or, hell with it, I'm just gonna fuck you right here in this restaurant."

Her eyes widen at his crudeness. She ducks her head, glancing around to check that no one heard him.

He's laughing to himself. "Ahhhh," he says, taking her hand, smiling big. "Glad to know it still gets your goat when I use that word. You know I wouldn't keep doin' that if it didn't bother you so much." He keeps laughing.

"It's so crude," she says.

"Well, then let's get outta here like I said, or it's gonna get a lot cruder."

It rains that afternoon, and it's just perfect, and again, she stops, for a little while at least, caring that it's 1977. For now, it doesn't matter. Their afternoon in bed (or, well, on mattress) together. More catching up, details of the computer system in the hatch, tales of her birthday and the Queen concert she skipped. Then periods of not talking and loving and listening to the rain. No, for now it doesn't matter what year it is.

She's dozed off, then wakes to find him staring at her again. He strokes her hair and smiles at her. "I think I got it," he says.

"What's that?" she asks, sleepily.

He moves his hand from her head to her stomach, and far from feeling awkward about it, she's growing (heh) to really, really like that feeling. She hates herself for ever doubting him.

What he says sounds something like "Doodle doodle doodle doodle," and maybe she's still asleep. No. No, she's not asleep, he's singing. There's some kind of familiar melody in his "doodles."

He sits up, and then bends over to sing right into her stomach, and, OK, yeah, this is a little awkward. Is she supposed to be looking at him? Just lying here? What's she supposed to do with her hands?

She allows herself to get distracted, though, trying to figure out what this is he's singing.

_She's got eyes of the bluest skies  
As if they thought of rain  
I'd hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain_

He's singing softly, sweetly, and that . . . that is so familiar. What is it? He reaches the chorus, and

_Whoa, oh, oh, sweet child o' mine  
Whoa, oh, oh, oh, sweet love of mine_

He sings. Well. Well, isn't that sweet? Except. Really? _**Really?**_ Guns 'N Roses? That's the best he can come up with? For one thing . .. well . . . Guns 'N Roses. How is that appropriate? Although oddly, almost perfectly, fitting for him. But for another thing . . . it's at least ten years before that song is released. And for a third, she's pretty sure this song was for Axl Rose's girlfriend, not his daughter.

She's getting ready to splutter some version of all this, leading with the sheer inappropriateness of singing Guns 'N Roses to your unborn child, when . . knock, knock, knock, the baby rhythmically taps from inside. Juliet giggles, and instead of a lecture on proper kid songs, she says, "Keep doing that, I think she likes it."

"Really?" he asks, amazed.

She puts his hand on the spot where the tapping was. "OK, do it again," she instructs. He does, and . . . there it is again. Her baby likes Guns 'N Roses. Great. Maybe she takes after her father . . .

After a bit, James stops singing. He looks up at her, smiling like he's proud of himself (and maybe he should be). Maybe now's the moment to tell him. Tell him they can't get married.

He rolls over on his stomach, pushes himself up on his elbows to look at her. He leans over to rest his forehead on hers. She should tell him, but she's a little addled. His shoulders and arms when he's holding himself up like that . . ._ mmmmmmmmmm. . ._

"I love you," he says, rubbing at her temples with his thumbs. She should tell him. "Most of my life has been pretend," he continues. "And I wish . . . I wish . . . I wish this could be real, but, uh, well, we can't get married. I don't think we can get a license."

She has to turn away so she doesn't laugh in his face.

"What's so damn funny?" he demands.

She turns back to kiss him. "I was working up the courage to tell you the exact same thing."

"Yeah?" he asks. "You're OK with that?"

"I haven't had a whole lot of experience with real marriages that work out. So, yeah. I don't see why a pretend one can't be just as good. Better, in fact."

He swallows. "OK, then," he agrees. "I just wish . . . I'd like something in my life to be real for once." He looks away.

"Hey," she pulls his face back. "Hey. We're real, right? This? Us, here, now? That's the important thing." It never ceases to amaze her, the encouragement he needs sometimes. But, remembering how skittish she was last night, how the doubt crept back in this morning . . . it amazes her, too, the encouragement she needs, and he gives. Boy, they both got themselves messed up but good somewhere along the line.

"Yeah," he says, smiling. "I just wish . . ."

She puts a finger to his lips to silence him. "When we get back to our right time."

A look of confusion crosses his face, followed by . . . resignation? Sadness? She's acutely aware that she's the one who has a life to go back to. Out of encouraging things to say, she lifts her head to kiss him, deeply. That does the trick, for now at least.

_**December 19, 1977 **_

They're doing this for Miles. That's what she's telling herself. Doing it because he insisted. Not because she wants it or because James needs it. NO, all for Miles. _Keep telling yourself that. _

"If you're going to pretend to be fake married, you ought to actually get fake married," he said yesterday. "Gotta tell your kid something. I mean you need an anniversary, right? And what about all your Dharma buddies?" he turned to Juliet. "I mean, you can lie and tell 'em you went down to City Hall, but really, you oughta do something."

She and James groaned, demurred, said it was a dumb idea. Miles kept at it, though, and truth is, it's not really a bad idea, and with the "Doing it for Miles" excuse, they're all in.

This morning, Miles and James went out with her credit card, and returned with dress slacks and shirts, candles, flowers, a cake, and golden wedding bands.

"Quick question: You guys not worried anymore if I think you're gay?" she remarked as they hauled it all in to the apartment.

"Shut up, Juliet," Miles commanded.

She held up a packet of lace doilies. "What are these for?"

"They're to put pieces of cake on," James said, snatching them from her, looking chagrined. He added, "I'll spend tonight makin' sure you don't think I'm gay."

No doubt. She's probably had more sex in the last three days than she did in four years of undergrad. Some combination of reconnection, hormones, and free time. Whatever it is, it's been _amazing._

So they're doing this for Miles. Standing here in the crappy apartment with the mattress now pushed against the wall. Miles lit candles. They're just going through this for him. Sure they are.

"All right, Oda Mae, you got us here, now what?" James demands.

"You could just give each other the rings, but I think you should say something. Like vows or something."

James shifts uncomfortably. "I dunno. I . . . I . . ." he rubs his face. "I . . ."

"Juliet could go first," Miles suggests.

"Oh, no, I don't know," she whispers.

"Yeah," James agrees readily. "Come on. Please? I just . . . gotta get my courage up or somethin'."

She looks at Miles, who is grinning and nodding encouragement. James squeezes her hands tighter. Well, OK. OK, if they're going to have a fake wedding, there might as well be something to it.

"Uh . . ." she starts. The guys wait. Miles starts cycling his right hand, indicating "hurry up."

"Hold your horses, Miles. I want to get this right. OK. OK. Here goes." She turns to face James directly, holding both hands. "OK. Back when you all first crashed, if you'd have told me that we'd end up here, in 1977, getting pretend married, having a baby . . . I'd have said the 1977 bit was the most likely to occur." James rolls his eyes. "I read your file, James," she continues, and he looks away. She tugs his hands for him to look back at her. "I read your file, and now I know you, and you are not your file." She looks deeply at him, and repeats. "You. Are. Not. Your. File. And if I have to spend the rest of my life convincing you of that, then I will. And I'm glad you're giving me that opportunity. I love you."

_There. Perfect, if I do say so myself_, she thinks.

"I love you, too," James responds.

Miles clears his throat. "Ring," he prods. Right. She puts the ring on James' hand. "Your turn, buddy," Miles says.

James reaches in his pocket to pull out a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolds it, and Juliet looks down to see his neat, precise handwriting. "Hold up," she says. "You wrote something? You knew he was going to ask us to do this? You _tricked _me into going first?"

He shrugs. Miles says, "I think the word is conned. He _conned _you into going first."

James ignores them, though, and starts reading. She notices he's got sweat on his forehead. He's scared to death. God, she loves him. He clears his throat and begins.

"I consider myself a good judge of character. When I first met you, I thought you were a cold-hearted, uptight bitch." He puts on a jokey voice. "Turns out I was right."

If this were a real wedding with guests and champagne and toasts, all the guests would have politely tittered at that line. Instead it's just Miles, and instead of a polite laugh, he looks at Juliet and says, "Yeah, that's what I thought about you, too."

She purses her lips in response.

James clears his throat again. He ignores Miles and Juliet both and continues. "So I'm glad that I got to know that the reason you acted the way you did is because of how much you loved your sister. That kinda love . .. that you'd do anything for someone you love . . . it, uh, I never knew anyone like that before, and I'd say I'm the luckiest guy in the world, except I think now that my kid is gonna be the luckiest person in the whole world, to have that kinda fierce love from before it's even born. And I hope that I deserve it, too."

Then he exhales heavily, and finally looks at her. He's pale and sweaty, like he might pass out, so she holds on tighter to his hands. "And, uh, I think you're hot," he says,_ of course_, because he's not too comfortable with honest sentiment, and she's just lucky he didn't say something crude.

Miles doesn't have to remind him about the ring. He slides it on her finger.

Miles says, "Well, by the power vested in me by absolutely no one, I guess I can say you guys are officially fake married. Congratulations. Now kiss. But not too gross."

And they do.

* * *

**Now for my quarterly plea for reviews. PLEASE! I am having a super-stressful week, and it will be nice to be distracted by my email dinging with reviews. If you don't have anything to say about the chapter, even just tell me your favorite chapter or SOMETHING! (I feel like a public radio pledge drive. Review now and I won't beg for reviews for another 10 chapters at least!)**


	38. September 22, 2004

**Record-quick update. Woooo! Thanks, tia, for suggesting their reaction to this . . .**

* * *

Juliet thinks the shaking has stopped. Everyone's crouched in the doorway, staring. Staring at _her_. Like she knows what's going on. _What the hell was that?_ No one moves. What if it starts up again? No, it's definitely stopped. She stands up first - it's her house, after all. Out the door.

The shaking is over, but there's a high-pitched whine. From where? From the sky? No that can't be right. It's louder though, and, yeah, undeniably from the sky. She looks up. It's so bright and clear and blue and ohmygod ohmygod. It's a plane, and she watches as it splits right in two.

_Those poor people, she thinks. Oh, God. Those poor people._

* * *

What the fuck just happened? Where is he? Face down in a pile of sand. Sawyer pushes himself up on his knees. He spits, chokes, gags. His teeth are gritty. His tongue is gritty. His whole fucking face is gritty.

He stands up, puts a hand to the back of his head. It's sore. He looks at his hand, surprised to find no blood there. He starts walking. Everything seems to work just fine.

What the fuck just happened? And why does it smell like jet fuel?

This is hell, right? If so, he deserves it.

* * *

PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS

If James has to hear one more goddamn word about Porter Fucking Goss he may just shoot himself in the face. Senate confirmation hearings on CNN. CIA head. Porter Goss? Yay? Nay? Just go ahead and confirm the damn guy already. Or not. Huh. Wow. James realizes from here on out, he doesn't know what's going to happen.

James came downstairs at the relatively early hour of 8AM. Juliet had been up God knows how long because there was a platter of scrambled eggs and about a loaf's worth of toast on the counter, and burnt-up bacon in the trash. Always burning things when she's stressed out.

"You expectin' company?" he asked, going ahead and picking up three pieces of toast, hardly making a dent in the pile. CNN was already on.

"No. Just. . . just got carried away."

"Any news?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Senate confirmation hearings."

They don't know when it actually happens. They don't know when the news gets out. So, they've been sitting here in the kitchen, watching on the little TV. Waiting. The watched pot that never boils.

PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS

This is as bad (worse?) than those long, long, loooooooong days (weeks?) between Rachel's due date and the day she decided to finally make her appearance. At least then they didn't have to watch Senate confirmation hearings. So, maybe that wasn't as bad as this. Juliet may disagree.

It's gonna happen, right? What happened, happened. Haven't they proved that enough? The grant, the crank call, the prison bribe . . . what happened, happened. But what if it didn't? What if one of the big events of their life wasn't supposed to happen? What if they weren't supposed to invest in Microsoft? What if she wasn't supposed to get pregnant that third time? What if they were supposed to move to San Francisco, not Los Angeles? What if they were supposed to stay in Ann Arbor?

Or what if they did all the big things right? What if the change was something miniscule? What if James, not Juliet, was supposed to be the one to drive Jimmy to the ER to get stitches in his head? What if Rachel was supposed to lifeguard instead of babysit the summer she was 16?

_A butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil and causes a Texas tornado . . ._

What if that butterfly flapping its wings was something TINY? What if it was having spaghetti instead of tacos for supper one random night in 1984? What if it was letting Jimmy borrow the car for prom? What if it was giving Sophocles to the neighbors in Ann Arbor instead of bringing him to LA?

Hours pass. Even so, it's not even noon yet.

"I can't stand this anymore," Juliet says. "I'm going to the gym."

Off she goes, and, _she's not fooling anyone,_ James thinks. They have TVs tuned in to CNN at the gym, so he knows good and well she's gonna be running on that treadmill, eyes glued to PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS

He's going to read his book. He mutes the TV. He'll look up at the end of every chapter. No, every page. No, every paragraph. Fuck it. He turns up the volume and watches.

PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS

Juliet comes back from the gym.

PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS

Miles comes over. The three of them sit at the kitchen table.

PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS

They order pizza for lunch.

PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS PORTER GOSS . . . the anchor interviews a political pundit. The anchor puts a hand to her ear. "Hold on just a minute," she excuses herself to her guest. "We're getting word . . ."

James, Miles, and Juliet lean in closer.

". . . initial reports indicate that an Oceanic Airlines flight has been lost over the Pacific. Those are all the details . . .OK, we do have a flight number. Oceanic 815 . . . and, OK, we're going to go to commercial here, and we hope to have more details when we return."

James, Miles, and Juliet lean back in their seats and let out their collective breath.

"It happened. It happened," Juliet says, and "It happened," one more time for good measure.

"So, that's it, right?" Miles asks. "We're gonna be OK. What happened, happened. The plane crashed. We're gonna be all right." He grins.

James wishes. "No, dude," he says. "I think they gotta get rescued. Jack and that bunch. 'Cause that's when we went back in time. We gotta wait a few more months at least."

But at least the plane crashed. At least no butterfly wing flaps kept that damn plane in the air.

Juliet's shaking her head. "No. Not even then. I don't know that we're safe until they crash again . . . whenever that is. That's what led to us getting off the Island. Things could still change. I mean, what if Sayid doesn't get captured when they crash? What if Sun makes it with them? What if Kate decides to come back? Anything could change. We aren't out of the woods till then."

"Not even then, not really," James murmurs. Miles and Juliet look at him. He explains, "If they crash just like they did, that probably means Juliet makes it off OK. That happened pretty soon after." He looks over the table at her. "And if that happens, you'll be OK. Right? You and Rachel both. But, shit, Enos, we gotta wait practically half a year. I mean, if we don't get off that Island . . . If I don't get off . . . no Jimmy."

"In more ways than one, eh LaFleur? Know what I mean?" Miles jokes.

"Heh," James half laughs.

Juliet rolls her eyes. "What is it, Miles? Why are you so fascinated with our sex life?"

"I'm not fascinated," Miles protests.

Juliet cocks an eyebrow at him, crosses her arms over her chest. "There's at least two boxes of Jeep junk upstairs that says otherwise."

"Fine," he admits. "Fine. Wanna know something? Wanna know when I found out about you two?"

"We told ya at our little one-year in Dharmaville dinner thing," James answers.

"Bzzzzzz! Wrong. Thanks for playing," Miles game-shows. "No. Remember that damn monsoon we had? We'd been there, I don't know, not quite a year yet?" James nods, yes, yes of course he fucking remembers, where is this heading?

Miles continues, "So you," he points to James, "tell me to bring some security logs by your place. You say, 'I gotta meeting with Horace, just let yourself in, and leave 'em on the couch.' So, I do. I do just what you say. Except you forgot to tell me your meeting got canceled. So, I let myself in, and . . . Well, you want me to continue?"

Juliet's still got her arms crossed. "Please."

"Yeah, well, the noises coming from the bedroom . . . I mean, wow! First I thought maybe some animal trapped in there. Then I hear a woman's voice, let me see if I can get this right . . . 'Oh, God, yeah, right there. Mmmm hmmm.' And then, the unmistakable sound of a headboard against the wall."

James cuts his eyes to Juliet. She's bright red. She really does get embarrassed when it comes to this sort of thing – the talking about it, at least. Not so much with the actual doing of it.

"Yeah," Miles keeps at it. "So, I let myself out. Now, I don't have anything more to do with my afternoon. Everything shut down due to that damn monsoon. I figure, might as well sit across the way and wait to see who comes out. Find out, who, exactly, is responsible for all that noise. Remember that Stacey chick?" He looks over at James.

"Oh, God, yeah. Yeahhhhh." Stacey. Good looking, and kind of known as "easy pickings" among the men of Dharma.

"Yeah, well, my money was on her. There I sat under the gazebo, and here comes Stacey dashing out of the cafeteria and across the quad. 'Huh,' I think. 'Cross Stacey off the list.' Then I waited and waited and waited. You guys almost outlasted me, but I stuck with it. Finally the door opens, and I just about shit myself when I see Juliet come strolling out. Now, don't get me wrong, you guys had that kinda flirty thing going on for awhile, but. . . Jesus! And then you have the nerve to act like _absolutely nothing's_ changed. For two weeks at least! We're all hanging out, and you two are same old, same old. Don't know how you did it, quite frankly."

"Me neither," James mumbles. Damn, that was pure torture. Kinda hot, though.

Miles isn't done. "And then, there's the whole Jeep story. And _you_," he points at Juliet. "You, always acting like such a prude."

Juliet, icily, "You think I'm a prude, Miles?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no. I _know_ you're not a prude. Know that very well, but you act like it, and well . . . it's just too damn fun to get under your skin."

She turns to James. "Can you believe him?"

"Uhm, no. Look!" he distracts. "Back from commercial." He does the same thing with her. She _does_ get embarrassed easily.

They watch the news. Juliet gasps. "Mikhail was playing this report . . ." she trails off. She puts a hand to her mouth and swallows hard. She's never had much good to say about that guy, so what is this all about?

Shit. She saw her sister then. Right now. Right this very moment, her sister is at a playground with her kid. He takes her hand, squeezes it. They keep watching. No details they aren't already well aware of. Actually, all the details are wrong. Commercial.

Miles says, "Maybe we should call them?" Why? So the details are all wrong. Not their place to correct. "Rachel and Jimmy," Miles clarifies. "Just to . . .you know . . . double check?"

Miles really is family. He's as worried as they are. He loves those kids, too.

Miles holds up his phone, he's not waiting for permission. "I'll call, you guys just keep quiet," he says, already scrolling through his address book. He's got the phone on speaker. It rings once, twice, and, damn, it's all gonna be OK, right? That plane did crash. Nothing's changed. Why is James suddenly nervous? Jimmy picks up the other end, and James unclenches his ass cheeks. Why is he so nervous? They're going to be fine. Right? Fine.

"Jimbo!" Miles trills in relief.

"Hey, Uncle Miles, how's it goin'?"

"Uh," Miles looks up in alarm. James shakes his head in disgust. If you're going to call, you need to have an excuse prepared. He still laughs about the ridiculous crank call Juliet made to her sister. Miles covers, though. "I got two tickets to the Dodgers on Friday. Wanna go?"

"Can't. I have a date."

"You're choosing a girl over me?"

"Well . . . _yeah_."

"I hope she's hot," Miles says.

"I dunno. I've never met her before. It's a blind date."

"So you don't have to wear your glasses?"

"Ha ha, Miles. Why don't you go to the game with Dad?"

"Your father is a loudmouth boor," Miles says. James flips him the bird.

Jimmy says, "You realize you guys can go to a ballgame without people getting the wrong idea? Sheesh."

"Yeah, OK, Jimmy. All right, well, talk to you later." Miles hangs up. "All right. One down, one to go." He sighs, relieved. James smiles over at Juliet. Yes, and if Jimmy's OK, Rachel surely is, too, right?

Before dialing, Miles says, "And before you ask, I don't actually have Dodgers tickets." He dials Rachel's number. It rings and rings and rings. Her voicemail picks up, but it's not her voicemail . . . it's not even her voice. It's a recording? Pre-recorded?. . . shit. Did something happen? NO. The plane crashed. It's all OK. It's all OK.

Miles clicks the phone off. They stare at each other. Juliet puts her head in her hands. Miles' phone rings, and they all jump. Miles answers, clicks on the speaker.

"You called?" It's Rachel's voice. Juliet mouths "Thank God." Why are they all so worried?

On the phone speaker, Rachel says, "Sorry, I just couldn't get to my phone in time." James throws up his hands in exasperation. Of course. Of fucking course.

"No problem," Miles says. "Hey, I've been seeing this woman, and I think she might kinda like a behind-the-scenes tour at the museum. You think you could arrange something like that?"

Rachel ignores the question. "A new woman? First I've heard of it. Who is she?"

"Never mind who she is," Miles snaps. "The question is, can you do a tour?"

"Yeah, sure. Just let me know a day or so in advance. No problem."

"All right. Great, thanks. I'll let you know."

"So?" Rachel leads. "Who is she?"

"Uh, no one. Just someone I met at the gym."

"Not one of those ladies in Mom's spin class?"

"God, no," Miles wrinkles his nose. "Those women are all _old_," he says. Juliet flips him the bird.

"Whatever, Uncle Miles," Rachel says on her end of the phone. "Just let me know. I'm interested to meet her."

"Right." Miles hangs up. "Well, two for two," he exults. "They're both OK."

James and Juliet glare at him. "Maybe you can take your imaginary girlfriend to an imaginary Dodgers game," Juliet notes. "Although, don't get any ideas from me. I'm old."

"I'd say somethin' myself, but it would be loudmouth and boorish," James adds.

"Cry me a river," Miles says. "The important thing is the plane crashed and, so far at least, everyone's OK."

"Your fringe of hair isn't fooling anyone, Miles. You. Are. Bald," Juliet says, smiling.

Miles flips her the bird, smiling back.

* * *

**Thanks so much for all the reviews last chapter. Much appreciated!**


	39. Oh Brother Where Art Thou?

**I wanted to get this up before my summer of travel starts. So, between work, vacation, reunions and the like, I'm going to be up and down the Eastern Seaboard for MONTHS! All the states and the District, too! (Well, except Delaware and Maine). Anyway, I don't know if this means more updates (all sorts of down time) or fewer (less regular computer time) or neither, but if you don't hear from me for awhile, that's why.**

* * *

Kate only makes it as far as the top step of her front porch before turning back around and sitting. She rests her elbows on her knees and stares into the artificial brightness cast by the streetlight. She stares until she thinks she can't even hear Sawyer's car anymore.

Cassidy's got the porch light off, not expecting Kate back anytime soon. That as much as anything makes her feel lonely and unloved. Jimmy's parents turned the porch light on for them.

She cries.

She cries over losing Jimmy. _Ignorance is bliss_, she thinks. God, yeah, blissful. She was blissful and ignorant. Until she found out who he was. _Is._ She wishes she never found out. This thing with Jimmy, this rebound thing, whatever it was . . . it might not have made it past Christmas. She could've easily, _easily_ seen him for a few more months in ignorant bliss, parted ways amicably, and no one would be the wiser. But, noooooooo. . . she had to be so fucking snoopy and suspicious, spying at the things stuck to his fridge, the things on his bookshelf. Dammit.

She cries over losing Sawyer. The idea of him, at least. She never imagined he could still be alive. She'd long since come to terms with that. The _idea_ of him, though . . . it gave her strength to know there was a man who would jump out of a helicopter for her. Is it selfish to admit it gave her strength to think he lived out his last days still pining for her? Just another crumbling lie in her life. He didn't live out his last days pining for her, if he ever pined for her at all. He's lived a whole life, a _wholesome_ life . . .

. . . with someone else. With _Juliet_ of all people.

She cries most of all for Jack. He didn't have to go back. He didn't have to leave. He didn't have to let guilt crush him. He didn't have to go back. They didn't need saving. They've been fine for _thirty four_ years. Thirty four years. Shit.

The porch light goes on, startling her. She hears the front door open behind her.

"Hey, thought I heard someone drive up," Cassidy says from the doorway. She comes to sit next to Kate on the front step. Kate furiously wipes away tears. Cassidy notices. "Oh my God," she says. She turns Kate toward her, grasping her shoulders. "What's wrong? Why are you back so soon? Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you?"

Kate smiles through the tears. No. No, of course not. The thought that Jimmy would do anything to hurt her is laughable, and she actually manages a laugh. She answers Cassidy. "No. He's a great guy."

"So what the hell are you doing here crying your eyes out? Oh God. He's married isn't he? Or . . . or . . . OK. Seriously. What's the deal?"

How the_ hell _is she supposed to answer that? Honestly, she guesses. "No, he's not married," she says. That seems to be the easiest for now.

"Just trying to figure out why you're here on the porch, crying. Rich, good looking, seemingly nice, single guys . . . they don't grow on trees, you know."

A few more tears leak out, and Kate wipes them from her cheeks with the heels of her hands. "I just . . . I . . . I'm not over Jack is all."

That . . . the "not over Jack" part . . . that's true. It's just the "is all" part tacked to the end. Oh, hell no, it's not "all." Not even remotely, as Cassidy astutely points out.

"I kinda thought that's the whole reason you were going out with him . . . to start getting over Jack."

Yeah. True. Even though for some reason she feels guilty about that. She gets a chill. Last man she used to try to get over Jack . . . well. Well. That man called her on it, didn't he? _You ain't gotta use me Freckles, all you gotta do is ask._

Kate shrugs.

Cassidy keeps on, "I'm just trying to get a mental picture here. You guys went out to dinner . . ."

"Back to his apartment, actually."

"Ohhhhkay . . . and then – what? You just flipped out and asked him to take you home? What? Is it over? Are you going to see him again?"

"Waaaaaay too many questions, Cass. It's a lot more complicated than that, and I don't know if I want to talk about it. Not yet at least. OK?"

"Sure. I understand," Cassidy says, smiling and patting Kate on the knee. After a lengthy pause, though, she says, "I thought he seemed very sweet."

_He is. _"How is that not talking about it?"

"Right. Sorry." Cassidy pantomimes zipping her lips.

Eventually, Kate asks, "How was everything tonight? Did he give you guff about going to bed?"

"Not so much," Cassidy says. "Brushing his teeth – that was a battle, but going to bed, no biggie. Is it OK if I ask you why he calls Jimmy 'Turtle Man'?"

Kate smiles. "Yeah, 'cause he had a turtle when he was a kid. His mom . . ." Kate trails off, squeezes her temples with the fingers and thumb of her left hand. God damn. All so fucking weird. Kate rallies. "His mom got him a turtle instead of a dog. Aaron liked that idea. So . . ."

"His mom sounds like a smart lady."

_You, of all people, wouldn't think so if you knew who she was married to._ "No more talking about it," Kate declares, standing up.

Cassidy reaches up to take her hand. "Sorry things didn't work out how you wanted," she says.

"You have no idea."

Over the next few days Kate throws all her energy into Aaron. Volunteers at his school. Takes him swimming. Out to Chuck E Cheese. Buys him new clothes for the winter. Reads him books about dinosaurs. Takes him to the dentist.

She's out of make-busy by Saturday, though, and invites Clementine and Cassidy over, and that surely means more questions from Cassidy that she'll have to ignore or attempt to answer or maybe, just maybe, try to talk through this. Maybe.

They're supposed to come over mid-morning. The kids can play. Maybe they'll do a picnic lunch at the park. Go to the movies. Have a sleepover. Anything to keep her busy.

She's expecting them when an unfamiliar minivan pulls into the drive. Kate peers out the front window, pushing aside the curtains, and is surprised when Clem and Cass pile out. Clem sprints to the front door as usual, busting in full of energy, asking where Aaron is. As surrogate big sisters go, she's a pretty good one.

Cassidy jogs up the front porch. "Whattaya think of my new wheels? Check it out." She clicks her key fob, and the sliding door closes automatically. "Top of the line," she states. Whispering excitedly, "It's got GPS, OnStar . . ."

"Not bad," Kate's impressed. "How come you didn't tell me you were getting a new car?"

"I wanted to make sure I had it in hand. I've been dying to tell you, but, well. . . You won't believe it. I won it 'cause I was like the three millionth shopper at our grocery store. I tell you what, I'm on a streak of good luck. Want me to play the lottery for you?"

Kate answers dully, "No thanks." _You're not on a streak of good luck. Someone's engineering all this._

Cass brings in her bags. In the kitchen, she starts unloading into the fridge. "Picnic stuff," she explains. Then, "You heard from him? You ready to explain why you're not giving this a go?"

Kate rolls her eyes. She thought she might have a grace period of a few freaking minutes at least. "Give it a rest, OK?"

"Just trying to wrap my head around it."

"Yeah, me too," Kate understates.

Blessedly, Cass moves on to gossiping about her neighbors' divorce. Kate nods along, thankful for the reprieve. She can hear Aaron and Clementine chattering and giggling in the back room. She's beginning to relax, just a little, when Cassidy, at the sink, rinsing apples, and looking out the kitchen window, says, "Well, well, well . . ."

Kate joins her at the sink and feels a surge of sick adrenaline at the Lexus pulling into the drive. Shit. Sawyer? Should she hide Cassidy? Where?

Wait, no, the Lexus was Juliet's car. Does she even know about Cass and Clem? How will Kate explain? No, no, hold up. . .

"Speak of the devil,' Cassidy murmurs.

. . . that's Jimmy's car, and it's Jimmy unfolding himself from the front seat and striding to the front door. She opens the door before the doorbell even finishes its chime.

"Uhm, hey," Jimmy says, sheepish, shuffling his feet on the mat.

"Hey," Kate says, attempting a smile, landing somewhere closer to a wince.

He shuffles some more, then says, "I came for my jacket."

"Ohhhkay," she sighs. "Wait here," she turns to go upstairs, but he reaches out to grab her wrist, gently.

She turns to look at him. He rolls his eyes. He's not wearing his glasses today. He's got such pretty eyes . . . _Juliet's_ eyes, and Kate actually does wince. He says, "The jacket's an excuse. Can I . . do you mind . . . could we talk? I apologize. I should've called to let you know I was coming."

She giggles, "Always so damn polite."

"I don't . . .do you . . . I . . . hope you don't think it's weird."

"No. It's just that, well, let's just say that your father was . . . not polite, leave it at that."

Jimmy takes a deep breath, shaking his head as he does.

Kate opens the door all the way, waving him in. She escorts him back to the kitchen, running into Aaron and Clementine on the way. "Jimmy!" they both squeal, happy to see him.

_Shit, shit, shit. Does he know? What does he know?_

Cassidy's still in the kitchen, slicing apples. _Shit, shit, shit. . ._

Kate says, "You remember my friend, Cassidy?"

"Yeah, hey," Jimmy holds up a hand in a half wave, then takes a step forward, reaching out a hand for Cassidy to shake. "Good to see you again," he says, politely, as she shakes his hand.

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" Clementine's bouncing at his feet.

"Hey there. . ." his voice trails off . . . he doesn't remember her name . . . _he doesn't know. . . they didn't tell him . . . _

Kate feels angry. Why is Sawyer being such a coward? Who's he scared of? Juliet? Does she know? Is he scared of his kids' reaction? Cassidy's?

Clementine has a right to know her father. Jimmy is her brother for crying out loud. She deserves to know. Jimmy deserves to know. And if Sawyer is too much of a coward, Kate sure the hell isn't.

"Jimmy," she says, seriously. "I think you should know . . ."

He's looking at her, but not paying much attention. Clementine's grabbed his forearm and he's lifting her from the ground while she giggles. Even Cassidy is laughing. Clementine doesn't open up to strangers like this. But he's not a stranger. He's her brother. Her _brother_. He deserves to know. They _all_ deserve to know . . .

"Hmmmm?" he asks her, as Aaron jumps on his other arm. Jimmy makes a kind of roaring Incredible Hulk sound while he lifts Aaron, too. Aaron squeals.

Kate deflates. Of course he deserves to know. Of course. But it's not her place to tell, is it? How would she like it if someone in the know just up and told Aaron the truth, huh? It's not her place. It's not her place. She repeats this as a mantra, because every fiber of her being is crying out to tell._ It's not your place, it's not your place, it's not your place . . . _

"OK, kids," Cassidy claps. "I think Kate and Jimmy have some things to discuss. Let's go play in the yard." She shoos them out, following behind, but not before throwing Kate an encouraging look.

Kate asks Jimmy, "Can I get you something?"

"I could use a stiff drink, but given that it's not even noon, I'll pass," he says.

She sits at the kitchen table. He joins her there.

She has so many things she wants to say, wants to ask, wants to know, but isn't even sure where to begin. Besides, he's the one who came here. Let him be the first to speak.

"Sooooooo. . ." he leads. "Weird, huh?"

Eloquent, Jimmy, very eloquent. "Yeah," she answers. He smiles at her. She can see his huge dimples. She tries to look somewhere else. He's had a haircut since she saw him last. It's a lot shorter, stubbly on the back of his neck.

"I'd be interested to hear your story," he says.

"They didn't tell you?"

"They spun a very wild tale of island mystery and time travel."

"And you don't believe them?"

He leans over, elbows on his knees, twists his hands together, sits up straight again, rubbing his hands on his thighs. "Weird thing is, I guess I kind of do."

She stares at him for a few beats, then begins. She speaks in a monotone. It's easier that way. "We crashed on that Island. That whole thing with the Oceanic 6 was a lie. We were rescued, that much was true, but the rest of it, who survived and all, it's just not true." She takes a deep breath. "Aaron's not. . . he's not . . ." she feels her face crumple, the monotone warping.

"I know," he says quietly, placing a hand on her knee. He speaks in a soothing almost-whisper voice, "I know. It's OK." She nods, successfully fighting back tears. He removes his hand, but keeps talking, giving her a chance to recover even more. "Dad says you guys were there for like three months. Said that place was, to quote, 'fucking bizarre'."

She nods. She wonders what all he knows. Smoke monster? Hatch? Whispers? Disappearing Island? That's a good place to start. "So, I don't know about time travel, but when we left, the Island just disappeared. One minute we're flying right toward it, and the next, just . . . gone."

"They say that's when they went back in time."

"Guess so," she says. "I mean, time travel – you might believe it if you spent any time on that Island. You . . . you never had any idea?"

"No," he snorts. "It wasn't like we had a secret closet of flux capacitors in our house when I was growing up." He stops, looks off to the side, seems to be pondering something. "You know, come to think of it, Mom used to drive a DeLorean."

"Really?"

"Naw, I'm just foolin'." He laughs and smiles real big at her. She has to look away.

She focuses on his shirt, a royal blue Dodgers t-shirt. It matches his eyes (_don't look at him_). The shirt's got a big white interlocking LA logo. It's tight on his arms, his biceps stretching the fabric, and mmmmmmm. _OK, look somewhere else_ . . . the floor. The hem of the right leg of his jeans is frayed, a few strands of denim thread trailing onto the linoleum. He's wearing flip flops, and she can see that he's clenching and unclenching his toes.

"Truth is," he says, "there are things that kinda make sense, though."

"Like what?"

"Like Mom and Dad were always the first to get anything new-fangled. Like microwave, cordless phone, caller ID, CD player. Or, I don't know. . . they were never very specific about their childhoods, you know?" Kate nods. Jimmy continues, "And you know, we never had any family. Well, besides Uncle Miles."

_Miles? Miles? Wait . . . that's . . . where does she remember . . .?_

Jimmy doesn't notice her confusion, because he's still chatting away. "When I was a kid, I was always jealous of Charlie Bucket."

_Charlie? No, he . . . that's not his name . ._

Jimmy's on a roll. "I was always jealous he had all four of his grandparents living with him, sleeping in the same bed. Course now I see the whole point is how poor they were." He chuckles to himself.

He sees the confused look on her face. He says, "You know?"

_What the hell is he talking about? She's been too busy trying to remember someone. Miles . . . Miles. . . and it was Charlie PACE. _"Who is Charlie Bucket?" she tries.

"Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?"

"You mean Willy Wonka?"

"That's the movie, but I'm talking about the book," he says.

_Miles. . . Miles. That was the guy from the freighter right? _"I never read the book," she says, mind elsewhere. _Miles. Locke's prisoner dude._

"What?" he exclaims, like she just told him she robbed a bank or killed a guy or raised someone else's baby or something. Or mud wrestled while handcuffed to his mother. All of which she did, so . . .

She ignores his surprise. "Miles? Is he like a small Asian guy?"

"Yeah," Jimmy smiles. "He's like my parents' best friend, and we've called him Uncle Miles since forever. You knew him, huh? Please don't tell me you slept with him, too."

She laughs. "No." Tries to even imagine that mouthy guy being friends with Sawyer. How did they not kill each other?

"Well, anyway, I guess the whole point is that time travel business . . . I guess it makes sense. They showed us stuff about them on the Internet. From before. Still, I almost gotta laugh. Time travel! I feel kinda like a dope just for believing it."

Kate shakes her head. "Don't. That place . . . time travel doesn't even top the list of weird things there. Honestly? Honestly, I think what's weirder than time travel is your parents."

"Yeah? What about them?"

"Just the fact of them. . . you know . . . _together_."

He looks confused. "I'm not sure I follow," he says.

She tries to explain. "They're so . .. _different_. Don't you see it? They don't really seem to . . . fit together."

He blinks rapidly, twists his mouth into a grimace, like he's actually considering this idea. "I guess I don't really see it that way." He thinks more. He shakes his head and says, "Quite frankly, the two of them? I love them both dearly, and I don't mean any disrespect, but . . . I guess I always thought who the hell else would put up with either one of them? Can't imagine them with anyone else." He laughs then, and puts up his hands. "And please don't say more, because I know you _can_."

She laughs and rolls her eyes, trying to pretend that she's cool with this, _oh yes, I screwed your Dad, ain't that a barrel of laughs?_

Truth is, she's spent about half this conversation trying to figure out if there is any way, any possible sliver of a way, to make this work. The thing is, she really likes Jimmy. Just plain likes him. He's funny. He's smart. He's laid back, but conscientious, too. He's sweet. He's almost effortlessly sexy.

He's like what you'd get if you crossed Sawyer with someone less feral, more civilized . . . like, _freaking duh_, if you crossed Sawyer with Juliet. Kate can't help but roll her eyes and laughing under her breath. Nope. No way. Nope. This can't work.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. Guess whatever we had going on is over huh?"

"Yeah," he smirks. "Yeah. I kinda got a rule about not dating anybody my dad's had sex with." He pauses, then adds, "It's been an unwritten rule, 'cause, oddly enough, it wasn't a rule I had any idea I needed to have. Seriously." He gives a fake shudder.

She laughs. "Jimmy, if you knew your father back then . . . well . . . hope you don't mind me saying. He was pretty damn sexy."

Jimmy takes a deep breath. "OK, yeah, sure, OK," he nods, seeming to believe it. "I get that, I guess. But . . . he's just kinda, you know, goofy, with his nicknames and his books and stuff. And, well, he can get so mad and irritated at little things. You seriously expect me to believe women dig that?"

"Not long term, they don't, but . . . in the short term, well, yeah, you can make some exceptions for a guy like that. Besides, you know, he could put on a good show when he needed."

Jimmy rolls his eyes. He brushes his palms together, shaking off imaginary dust. "Don't want to think about it."

Kate smiles. "Just warning you – that rule about who you can date? Yeah, that list might be longer than you imagine."

He shakes his head. "Duly noted," he says.

As if on cue, Cassidy enters the kitchen. "Ignore me, please," she says, letting herself into the pantry and coming out with a broom. "Gonna rescue Clem's plane from a tree branch."

"Need help?" Jimmy asks, standing up. "I've probably got at least 8 inches on you."

"That would be great," Cassidy says, "But I don't mean to interrupt." She looks over at Kate, looking for a reaction.

Kate says, "No, I think we're done here."

Out in the backyard, Jimmy easily shakes the remote control plane down from the tree. Clementine's holding the remote box. "Can I take it for a spin?" he asks her. She nods eagerly, and hands over the box, grinning up at him. Kate's heart breaks a little. Jimmy hands over the airplane and Clem gets it up in the air. Jimmy controls it, laughing as he swoops it down, right over Kate and Cassidy's heads, back high into the air, over the house an back . . . Clem and Aaron start trying to chase after it.

Kate and Cassidy watch the fun, standing shoulder to shoulder, following the plane in the sky.

"He's really not married?" Cass asks.

"Right."

"And you say he's not an asshole."

"Not at all."

"Really as rich as you said?"

"Yeah."

"Steady job?"

"Uh huh."

"And you're really through with him?"

"Yep." _Goddamn Cass, stop asking questions. I get it. I FREAKING GET IT. _

"Can I have his number?"

Kate whips her head around, stops following the swooping remote control plane, stares right at Cassidy. She's . . . she's . . . please tell me she's kidding right. She looks like she's kidding. Or . . . maybe not.

"NO. No you cannot have his number."

"You're gonna have to explain all this to me, then. I'm at a loss. Otherwise, I'm calling that man up and asking him on a date."

Kate is so very tired of lying. She can't keep it all straight anymore. Can't keeping parrying all these questions. She's had it. Exhausted. So she says, "He . . . His . . . Sawyer is his dad."

Cassidy stares at her, looking confused. She says, "Why does that matter? I don't care who his dad is."

_Why does that matter? Is she fucking kidding? Why does it matter? What? How long does she have?_ Because Kate can easily list about a million reasons why the hell that matters. Kate stands with her mouth hanging wide open, blinking about a zillion times per minute.

"It's actually kind of encouraging," Cass says. It's not possible for Kate to blink faster or open her mouth any wider. "I worry all the time about what to tell her, how to make sure she grows up normal and well-adjusted. And look at him!" She gestures to Jimmy, laughing and playing with the kids. "You say he had a dad like Sawyer, and he seems fantastic."

"I didn't say . . ." Kate mumbles, unable to continue._ I didn't say he had a dad LIKE Sawyer._ But of course, the truth is too impossible for Cass to comprehend.

"Wonder how she did it," Cassidy says. Kate looks to her, confused. Cassidy clarifies, "Jimmy's mom. Wonder how she did it."

"You and me both. You and me both" Kate murmurs. "Cass, please don't call him, OK? Please?"

Cassidy senses Kate's distress. "OK. OK, I won't."

Jimmy walks up to them, handing the remote control over to Clementine. "I got a tee time in about an hour. Gotta change clothes, get my clubs, and pick up a buddy, so I'd better run."

"I'll walk you out," Kate says.

He shakes Cassidy's hand. "Nice to see you again," he says. "Bye, guys!" he waves to the kids. They squeal and wave back, hugging his legs.

"Let's go," Kate orders him. She can't bear to watch.

She walks him out the front door. He turns to her. "Guess this is goodbye. I thought I should tell you in person. I feel bad it took me a few days to do it."

"Don't feel bad," she says, and she hugs him. She holds on for a bit longer than she thought she would. She's not going to cry. She's not going to cry. She pulls away and then says, "Hey, if your folks, or if your dad . . . if they ever need my help with anything. Maybe talking to someone or anything, I'll be here. OK?"

"All right," he says. He backs down the steps to the front walk, looks back at her as he walks to his car. He slides into the front seat, waves to her. She must be looking pretty damn morose, because he sticks out his tongue, crosses his eyes. She has to laugh. He shuts the door, backs out, and is gone.


	40. Days of Their Lives, 3

_**December 21, 1977 **_

(Later, he'd think of it as the day that kept coming to a screeching halt.)

He wakes up early, shaves, showers, dresses (into the new dress shirt and slacks), stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. Gonna get a job today. And it's kind of a con, sure, he ain't really "Jim LaFleur," but DeGroot's recommendation is based on his _real_ work, so it ain't totally a con. He tiptoes around the kitchenette, takes his cereal bowl and juice back to the bathroom, sits on the toilet lid, so he can eat without waking her. (When he lands this job, they are out of this shoebox.)

She's sleeping in, taking advantage of her Christmas break. Maybe when he lands this job, she can quit that typing business, which very clearly is beneath her. Very clearly bores her. What's she gonna do, though? Stay home and raise their kid? Yeah, right, OK. He sees that lasting half a year, tops. Bored, bored, bored … that's what she'll be. Can't let her get bored . . .can't give her a chance to realize she can do so much better than him for a "husband" and father.

He's working on a plan: he can put paychecks in Microsoft, sure, but beyond that? Ain't somebody gonna have to figure out the other stuff? Other companies? Get the timing right? Maybe someone who's comfortable at a university library? Someone who likes research? And she won't hafta punch a timecard, and can do it all during his days and nights off-shift. It'll be fucking perfect.

See, the job's just for the kid. Set a good example of hard work, someone for the kid to look up to. The money? Well, that's for the kid too. She (? Juliet always calls it 'she') can go to college any damn where she pleases any place she can get in (and she's gonna be smart like her mama, she _is_), don't gotta worry 'bout what mom and dad can afford. Oh yeah. He imagines sending her off to college 18 years from now, him and Jules nearing 60, empty-nesters . . . and still not caught up to when they're supposed to be.

Before he leaves, he crouches down, brushes Juliet's cheek with his knuckles. "Hey," he whispers. "Gonna talk to DeGroot about a job. Be back this afternoon, 'k?"

"Mmmmm," she responds. Her eyelids flutter, open for a second. She smiles, then rolls over, back to sleep.

Oh, yeah. He's walking on air now, made it out without disturbing her sleep. Yeah. That's a good sign. Good omen.

* * *

DeGroot ushers him into his office. "I hate we can't keep you on, Jim." (_Yeah, whatever, Bozo_). "But once you made the decision to leave the Island . . ."

"I understand, sir."

"And I understand why you did it, but, well, those are the rules."

"No problem."

"But," here DeGroot riffles through a manila folder. James leans forward, peers at the papers, trying to read upside down. "Your performance evaluations were brilliant. Horace thinks very highly of you."

(_Or did. Or does again? Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares?_)

"I appreciate you sayin' it, sir." _Play the game, play the game._

"Anyhow, I know the head of security for U-M campus police. He's always looking for a few good men, and I've given him your name. He can meet with you this afternoon, and I have it on good authority, he'll have a spot for you."

"Appreciate it, sir." James shifts his weight forward, leans his elbows on his knees, twists his hands together. He sits up straight again, rubbing his hands on his thighs. "You mentioned he'd maybe have a spot for my buddy Miles?"

"I did, but . . . well, we don't have the glowing reports on Miles that we do on you." _The hell?_ James WROTE Miles' reports, he knows they're pretty damn good. DeGroot sees his confusion. "They are very good evaluations, to be sure, it's just . . . not as good as yours were. Horace chose _you _to be Head of Security. Not him. And I'm putting my name on the line here, recommending you."

"Sure thing, boss." James agrees.

He's getting Miles this job. He is. He said he would, and he is. He fucking is._ Sorry, DeGroot, I'll con ya right here and now, and you ain't even gettin' weeks' worth of mindblowing orgasms in advance. _

"Glad you understand," DeGroot says.

"It's just . . . well, it don't say it in there anywhere," James gestures at the files on DeGroot's desk. "Plenty o' stuff I got the credit for, but without Miles, probably wouldn't of got done." He leans in close, says conspiratorially, "You know how it is, key to bein' a good leader, hire good people. I know you done it. You got an impressive crew, sir." _Flatter flatter flatter flatter._

DeGroot smiles proudly.

"Anyway, I don't go without Miles." BLUFF BLUFF BLUFF. He's got a kid on the way, dammit, he _needs_ this job . . . for a little bit at least. Gotta get that Microsoft stock banked. This is a total fucking bluff. "I don't go without Miles, so might as well call your buddy up, and tell him I won't be meetin' with him this afternoon."

The bluff is, has to be, that DeGroot don't wanna call this fella up and flake out. And, yeah, James got DeGroot figured out quick. Key to a con. DeGroot don't want the rest of campus to think he's a big hippy flake.

"So, thanks anyway, Boss," James stands, sticks out a hand to shake, gets ready to walk out the door. _Don't you dare call my bluff, you giant hairy hippy._

"Hold on," DeGroot says. _Oh yeah._

DeGroot messes with his beard chin hair. "All right. Sticking up for your men." He points at James. "That's leadership right there." James fights not to roll his eyes.

_OH YEAH_, though. _Oh yeah. Got Miles a job. On a roll today, on a roll._

DeGroot says, "I'll call as soon as you leave. You and . . ."

"Miles," James supplies.

"Right." DeGroot hands over a campus map, points out a red ballpoint star. "That's security headquarters. You and Miles show up there at 1 PM. Ask for Chuck. I sent along your performance evaluations. I'll see if I can get someone to run Miles' files over. You won't need anything but ID."

Aaaaaaaaaaaaannd screech. Fuck. Really? Ain't DeGroot vouching for him?

"ID?" James gulps.

DeGroot waves him off. "Even just drivers' license should be fine." He's pushing him out the door. "I'm sure we'll be seeing you around, Jim?" He makes a pointed glance at James' left hand. "Maybe we can get a bit more security presence around here now that someone on our staff is married in."

Whatever, dude. Fuck. James mopes out of the Dharma building. Fuck. ID? Why didn't he think of that? What the hell is he gonna do? The job . . . well, if that don't work out, fine. He'll just go to Plan B, and make all his money off bets, except . . . how's he gonna bank it all without ID? How's he gonna buy Microsoft? Why didn't he think of this?

He mopes over to Miles' building, spots Miles, pacing the small patch of brown winter grass out front.

"You get me a job?" Miles asks, worried, breath coming out in puffs. He stamps his feet to keep them warm, rubs his hands together. Damn, it's cold here.

"Depends how you look at it," James answers. He explains the whole deal, how he talked DeGroot into vouching for Miles, and then explains how it's not gonna work out.

Miles shakes his head, grinning. He's getting ready to pay James back for his loyalty. He slaps James on the back. "Well, man, you're in luck. I've been living here on this college campus, pounding back a few beers at the local bars, just catching the lay of the land, while you've been busy with . . . well, _you know_."

"Get to the point, Venkman."

"The point is – this is a college town. Want a fake ID? Well, I know the place."

James grins, hard.

"What would you do without me?" Miles crows.

"Don't know, Enos, don't know."

* * *

The IDs are no problem. James pays for them with a wad of cash he's borrowed from Juliet. ("It's not borrowing," she'd said. "What's mine is yours." She meant it, but said that last part with a poorly concealed smirk and eye roll).

The ID guy does say, upon seeing James and Miles, "You realize the drinking age in Michigan is 21?"

"So?" James challenges.

"Whatever, man, whatever," the ID guy says. He doesn't make Michigan licenses. He hands them a list of states he does make. James picks Alabama, Miles picks California. They use their actual birthdates minus 30 years. James notes a Florida ID on there. Maybe he'll send Juliet over here to get one, too.

After lunch, Miles and James head over to the security building. Their IDs get them through the front desk, and James thanks his lucky stars they're doing this in December 1977, instead of late September 2001.

Chuck meets them, tells them they can start in January. He gives them instructions on where to buy uniforms, hands over a procedures manual, gives them a time and location for their newcomer orientation. James and Miles can't stop smiling at each other and secretly congratulating themselves on their good luck. Chuck tells them that since they are "low men on the totem pole," they'll have to take the crap shifts for a while at least.

"You guys married?" he asks.

James starts to shake his head no, but Miles points his way with a thumb and says, "He is." James beams. Oh yeah, forgot.

"Got kids?" Chuck asks.

"Uh, my wife is pregnant." Weirdest thing he's ever said in his life - and he once said, "H, if this short don't get fixed, that pylon frequency ain't gonna be high enough to keep the Smoke Monster out."

"Congratulations," Chuck smiles at him, shakes his hand. "So, you may find yourself doing a lot of nights, weekends, but should give you plenty of time with your family." He turns to Miles, "Sorry to say, Miles, but we tend to give a lot of the holiday shifts to single guys. I hope you understand."

"Sure," Miles agrees amiably.

On their way out, though, Miles starts grumbling, "Maybe_ I _should get fake married. Maybe I should tell him _you_ are fake married. Holiday shifts! Did you hear that? Let me get this straight: you get to sleep with her _and_ you get holidays off? Fuck you, LaFleur."

"Love you, too, Miles."

* * *

He busts into the apartment. "Got me a job, Blondie," he says, proudly.

She's sitting at the little fold-out card table, reading the paper. "Congratulations," she says, then smiles and turns her face up to kiss him. "What did he get for you?"

"Campus security. Start in January."

"Campus security?" she asks. "Like on loan from Dharma?"

"No, babe. Remember I told ya they told me if I chose to leave . . ."

"I know," she interrupts. "But, I just thought with you going in to see Dr. DeGroot, I thought that meant he was going to bend the rules a little or something."

"Nope. Besides," he says, sitting down next to her, pulling open the sports section, "don't matter. This campus job seems like a good deal."

She folds her section of the paper (Op-Ed, he notes) neatly, running her fingers on the fold. "It _does_ matter, James. They aren't going to let you go back if you aren't with Dharma anymore."

"Let me go back where?" he asks casually, opening to the NBA standings, taking his glasses from his breast pocket.

"Back to the Island."

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand screech (again). Uh. What?

He's absolutely speechless. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He looks over the top of his page, over the rims of his glasses, gauging her seriousness. She's not kidding. Uh, what?

"Uh what?" he finally manages.

"You don't really expect we're going to stay here – now – forever, do you?"

"Uh."

"Really? You really think we're just going to live out our lives . . . "

He's gotten his voice back – sorta. He splutters and stumbles, his thoughts and words getting all backed up on each other. "What the fuck? Who . . . You. . . I . . . You wanted offa that place more'n anyone."

"No. What I _wanted_ was to go home. This isn't home," she says, patiently, eyes sad, but hopeful, trying to get him to understand.

"Best home I ever had," he smiles at her. _Come on, baby, please see._

She makes a big show of looking around, the busted toaster, the cinderblock bookcase, the mattress on the floor, the mini-fridge. "That's horribly depressing, James."

"Come on, now, you know I don't mean that literal."

She keeps staring at him with those huge pleading eyes. They don't work. God, normally they do a number on him. He even has a name for them: Big Sad Eyes. _Well, shit, how do you expect me to say no to that?_ That's his normal response. Not today. He's angry. She's being unreasonable. Is she fucking kidding?

He stands up so abruptly his chair knocks over backwards. She jumps a little in alarm. He starts out yelling, "Listen here, Braniac." She jumps up then, too, Big Sad Eyes replaced by Frightening Others Eyes. He cuts the volume, and goes for his specialty: quiet and intimidating and just a little bit sarcastic. "I want you to put that huge damn brain a yours to work. Try, if you can, to remember what it was they brought ya there to do. Then, when you got that figured out, think, best you can," (he taps his index finger on his temple) "how fuckin' successful you were with that little task."

That's a low blow, and he knows it. It's why he said it. She still has nightmares sometimes about the women she couldn't save. She's shaking her head, lips pursed, eyes boring into him. Her chin gets little dimples in it. She's trying not to cry.

He goes on. "Yeah, that's right. Now take a good hard look at yourself, and then say to yourself, 'Juliet, what is it that killed all those women on the Island?' Go on now, I'll give ya time if you need to get it figured out."

Her face doesn't move. At least she isn't crying.

"You ain't goin' back." _That's that. Just . . . no. No, she's not._

"You forbid it?" she spits.

"I don't. . ." and that's not what he meant, but she sees, doesn't she? They can't go back. This is the hand they've been dealt. What's done is done. This is it.

She says, in her Calm Voice now, "I wouldn't even think of going back until after the baby comes. It's safe there, now, with Dharma. You know that. We were there for three years, and we know enough to get out before the purge, if it comes to that. I don't think we're taking unnecessary risks."

Calm Voice works, even though the Big Sad Eyes didn't (when has Calm Voice ever _not_ worked?). He reaches out to take her hand. "Hey," he says. "I get that, I do, but we got a good thing going here, I think." She smiles at him. That's encouraging. He adds, "Got our little family to think about."

She jerks her hand away. What did he say? She puts her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a cry. She says, "We've got family there, too . . . well, then . . . we have family there, too. I'm not ready to give up, James. I've spent six years. . ." she looks away, blinks tears from her eyelashes. "I can't let go of that dream. I'm not ready. Don't you see? Don't you feel the same way? We have family there - Rachel, your daughter . . . I . . ."

In a few months (and for the rest of their lives), those three words (Rachel, your daughter) are going to have a completely different meaning. But for now, well, truth be told, no, no he doesn't feel the same way. You can't have everything in life. What he's got now is way more than he deserves. No, he fucked things up royally with his daughter. He hopes Kate checked in on them. All he could do for them. He fucked things up once, and he's not going to fuck things up this time. Not with this kid. No.

He doesn't say those things, though. He doesn't want her to know he's placed all his chips in the 1977 pile. This is it for him. She's not ready to "let go of that dream?" Well, she don't need to be. She'll come to her senses. Right? Of course she will – she's the most logical person he's ever met.

He'll keep his big "investing for the future" plan secret for a while at least.

"Hey," he concedes. "Just cause I got this job, don't mean you gotta stop with your typing. I know how much you love that." She laughs. He continues, "You keep on with Dharma. And when they start lettin' people back, well, . . . no sense in closing that door yet, right?"

He's lying to her. When they start letting people back . . . over his dead body is she ever – _ever_ – taking his kid to Craphole Island. No fucking way. No way. And he _will _forbid her. He will. He'll just have to figure out a better way to say it.

_**December 31, 1977**_

"I got it!" Juliet yelps. She makes a sound like 'woop woop!' She's gloating. This is the fourth time in a row she's won. "Professor Plum in the conservatory with the knife." She pulls the cards out of the envelope, lays them on the board. "Read 'em and weep." She must be cheating somehow. There isn't enough strategy in Clue for this to be luck.

"On that note," Mile says, standing up.

_Sweet. See ya later, Miles. Happy New Year and all that jazz. _James and Juliet haven't been intimate since before lunch. Ten hours at least. Maybe a record since his return, and that might seem like overdoing it, but he hasn't been back two weeks yet. Plus, it's really cold out and this apartment is tiny, and well . . .

Today, though, they've been with Miles all fucking day. Went to see _Saturday Night Fever_ (OK, that was cool and weird), had dinner, now just chilling back at the room (James has given up calling this shithole an 'apartment' – they're moving to an actual two-bedroom place in late January, when he gets his first paycheck).

"On that note," Miles says, "I'm gonna go take a leak." _Sonofabitch. _James tries to glare him into catching a clue, but no luck.

Juliet gathers their ice cream bowls. She takes them into the kitchenette to rinse (had to buy an extra bowl just so they could share with Miles).

James comes up behind her at the sink, puts his arms around her, kisses her neck. "Mmmmmm," she says, and GOD DAMN, maybe he can just PAY Miles to leave?

He sneaks his hands up under her shirt, rubs them up and over the top of her belly. The skin there is warm and smooth. He actually thinks that's kind of . . . more than kind of . . . sexy, but he also worries thinking that way makes him a pervert. Is he a pervert?

"Hmmmm," she halfway hums, halfway purrs, and guess what? He doesn't care if he's a pervert, this feels sooooooo good.

He moves his hand up, over her breast, runs his thumb over her bra, feeling her nipple harden.

"Miles," she says. (And that is A. Total. Moodkiller.)

"It's James," he whispers in her ear.

She giggles, pushes back an elbow into his ribs. "I'm just reminding you he's in the bathroom."

They hear him flush the toilet.

"Don't care," James grits. "Maybe he'll see us and take a hint and leave."

He moves his hand again, putting the whole palm over her breast. Really. Really, he's at the stage now where he Does. Not. Care. What Miles sees. He can feel her wriggling a little bit to get away (she probably _does_ care what Miles sees). He can also feel his hand working its magic, and little sounds in the back of her throat, so even if her mind's telling her to wriggle away before Miles walks in, her body's objecting. He's amazed these past two weeks how ready she always is (he's read in one of his books that it's probably just hormones, but, hey, he ain't one to look a gift horse in the mouth).

"Ahem," Miles announces his presence.

James doesn't move. "Didn't hear you wash your hands, Bonsai."

"Gonna do it in here." Miles sidles them out from in front of the kitchen sink. James still keeps his hands under Juliet's shirt. "Nice try," Miles says, sticking _his_ hands under the kitchen faucet. "I don't care if you strip naked right here in the kitchen, but you're stuck with me till midnight." He soaps his hands.

Juliet's brain finally gets the upper hand, and she successfully wriggles out of James' grip.

Miles says, "Humor me here, OK? You know how New Years' always is. This year's worse than ever, being out here, you know?"_ Out here_ – it's what they've begun calling 1977 Michigan. "I don't wanna be alone when we get to 1978. So, you're stuck with me. But I promise. One drink at midnight, and I'm outta your hair."

"It's OK, Miles," Juliet says, grabbing his forearm and squeezing it, giving him Sympathy Eyes.

James just grumbles. It's not entirely OK with him.

Midnight comes, and James can't help it, but you know what? He's glad Miles is still here, or glad that Miles has them, and they have Miles. Even so, when he gives Miles a Happy New Year hug, he whispers in his ear, "Happy New Year, now get the fuck outta here." And Miles leaves.

_**February 11, 1978**_

"Ma'am?" the waiter hands her a leather-bound menu.

She nods thanks and takes the menu. She grins across the table at James. He suppresses a laugh while taking his menu. She hasn't felt this way in a while – Seventiesland, and tonight they are on the Seventiesland Fancy Restaurant Ride.

The guy at the table next to them has a trim mustache and feathered hair neatly parted down the middle. He's wearing a three-piece suit with no tie. Instead, his shirt is unbuttoned enough to give a nice glimpse of a gold chain and medallion nestling in his chest hair. James and Juliet can't stop looking over at him and staring at each other in merriment. Seventiesland, indeed.

"You know," she says, opening her menu. "I've been sleeping with you for almost three years, and this is the first real date you've ever taken me on."

"Figured what was the point, long as you kept puttin' out," he says. She set that one up on a tee for him. He leans across the table to take her hand. "Seriously, though," he says. "Glad we could do it. 'Bout time."

She gets butterflies when he talks like that. Plus, it actually is their first real date, as amazing as that might seem. She even went out and got a dress she feels is even kind of, maybe, flattering. More tailored than all the tablecloth-looking things she's been wearing of late, at least. This is really kind of perfect and very, very nice, so when the waiter comes to take their drink orders, she goes for a red wine.

James orders a whiskey, then gives her a look. _Oh, I dare you,_ she thinks. _I dare you._ He better not spout off some factoid he's read in one of those endless pregnancy books he's been devouring. He just better better not. He sighs, shifts his weight in his chair, clears his throat._ Go ahead, say it. Say it, I dare you. _

She doesn't give him a chance. "It's one glass of wine, James. It'll be fine."

He grumbles some, but to his credit, keeps his mouth shut about it. (Of course, in a little over sixteen years when their daughter comes home with purple hair and they have a behind-closed-doors doozy of a fight over the appropriate parental response to purple-haired daughters, he'll say, "And you thought that glass of wine wouldn't hurt." That's sixteen years down the road, though.)

When the waiter brings their drinks, James purses his lips, but keeps his yap shut. She raises her glass for a toast. "To one month on the job," she says, and he raises his glass in response. He's proud of his job, she knows it. She's proud of him for it.

"To two weeks in our new place," he says.

Yeah, she's not at all surprised he couldn't make it last in the efficiency apartment. The day after he got his first paycheck, they were out of there and into a halfway-decent two bedroom, full bath, full kitchen place just off campus.

When they return to said apartment later that night, he collapses onto their rent-to-own sofa, groaning. He ate too much (they went for the whole shebang from appetizer to dessert). He has to unbutton his pants. "Oh, I'm so full. Jesus, I'm uncomfortable."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Welcome to the club," she mutters, sidling over to the sofa, putting out an arm behind her to land as gracefully as possible (not very. Not at all) on the sofa herself.

He reaches under the sofa. "Gotcha somethin'," he says.

"We're celebrating your first month on the job," she replies. "Why are you giving me a gift?"

He pulls a square package from under the sofa. It's wrapped in pink wrapping paper.

"Oh, no. No. No you don't. Did you just _con_ me into a Valentine's date?" She's incredulous, and if she could get up from the sofa without a superb struggle, she'd do it right this second, so she could look down on him and read him the riot act. She. Does. Not. Do. Valentine's.

"Now hold your horses just a cotton pickin' moment. The wrapping paper is what Chuck had extra down at the office. And it ain't even Valentine's yet, and when it is, I'll ignore ya all fuckin' day if it's what ya want. Consider this a late birthday present. Besides, it didn't even cost me five bucks." He hands the gift to her. It's a paperback book. That much she can tell.

She softens a little bit.

He says, "Go ahead. Open it."

She does. It's a paperback _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_. Oh my God. She runs her fingers over the title. Oh my God. "Oh," she says. "Oh," and, great, here come the tears. She won't miss this crying over ever little damn thing, no she won't.

He says, softly, trying to explain, maybe misinterpreting her tears, "I realize it ain't much, but . . . well, it's 'cause that first time in the library, 'cause I said. . ."

She puts her fingers to his lips. "I remember," she says, smiling so hard she can almost hear her lips stretch. "I remember. Thank you, I . . . this may be the sweetest thing anyone's ever given me."

"That's horribly depressing, Juliet," he says, and she recognizes her words from their Going Back to the Island argument, and she just won't think about that right now. Right now, she'll think of what she has here, and what she has now, and try to forget that she may never have everything she wants. Even if she can't quite give up the ghost entirely.

She leans in to kiss him, loving the smell and taste of him. She pulls him to her, wishing she could get closer to him without her gigantic middle getting in the way (six more weeks, really?). Or maybe she doesn't, because in her right hand she's clutching he book she can one day read to this child, and he's given her that, given her all of it, and this has to be enough, right? Why isn't this enough?


	41. The Oceanic Six

_**January 9, 2005**_

They sit, rapt, unblinking. It's happened. It's really happening. Another step. Somehow, though, this one is a huge relief. Like a celebration, almost. Like entertainment, certainly. They're watching on the flat screen, munching on popcorn, Miles and James heckling from time to time.

A reporter says, "Considering the ordeal that you've all been through, you look pretty healthy having been on an island for more than a hundred days."

Hurley replies, "Was that directed at me, dude?"

"Yeah! You tell 'em Kong!" James chuckles. Miles and Juliet laugh, too. She reaches into James' bowl to get another handful of popcorn, sets her feet up on the coffee table.

Oh, God, what a relief. They're back. They're back. The Oceanic Six, they're being called. And that means Miles, Juliet, and James are somewhere back in time getting nosebleeds and dodging flaming arrows and racing gun-toting outriggers.

It's a big step. Thank God, thank God. Life is going to turn out the way it's supposed to. Juliet feels a weight lift. The loop's not closed yet – that won't happen until they crash again, but this feels like a HUGE step. When the news reports came out that they'd been rescued, Juliet had this overwhelming all-consuming fear that she'd be one of the "survivors." And then what? She'd get to see her sister again, but at what cost?

To think there'd been a time when she would have given just about _anything _to be one of the people sitting up on that stage, answering questions with lies.

Since September, she hugged her children tighter every time she saw them, every time she said goodbye. She wanted to go into their bedrooms at night and watch them sleep and look over them, but they're adults who don't live with her anymore, and so she worried worried worried all fall.

It got worse as Christmas approached, as the rescue day neared (not that they knew exactly when that would be).

"Everything OK, Ma?" Jimmy asked after she burned the first two batches of their Christmas morning blueberry pancakes.

"Fine, fine," she mumbled, then hugged him super tight. "Merry Christmas, Jimmy," she whispered to him.

Rachel left Christmas night to exchange gifts with this new guy she's been seeing. A photojournalist. Andrew? Anton? Something . . . Before she left, she asked, "Mom, you OK?"

Juliet nodded, smiled. "Everything's fine, sweetheart."

"Even Jimmy notices it. You sure you're OK? And Dad? He's a bit off, too. You guys aren't getting a divorce or something?"

"Couldn't if we wanted to," Juliet answered.

Rachel smiled big. "Hey, whattaya know? Mom's being cryptic. Guess everything _is_ OK."

Then came the New Year's Eve they'd been looking forward to for thirty years. The one where they finally catch up. The one that is actually, honestly, truly a NEW year. Thirty years they've been celebrating New Year's Eves, getting drunk more than half the time, feeling weirded out, remarking on the amazing Richard Alpert-agelessness of Dick Clark. Like some kind of sick joke, he had a stroke in December and didn't host this year's New Year's Rockin' Eve. Miles came over, and the three of them sat in the kitchen, drinking, watching the news. Waiting for news of the rescue. Waiting. . . . waiting . . . waiting . . .

For weeks they waited. Juliet didn't believe it possible, but it was worse . . . way worse . . . than waiting for Rachel to be born.

"Survivors of the Oceanic Flight 815 crash" reports started coming out about 48 hours ago. "Tell us the names!" James would shout every time the news reported on the rescue. "Tell us the names!" And, oh God, she hadn't thought about it. What if _he_ was one of the survivors? The worst possible outcome. Their whole life would go 'poof.' Their whole life would go 'poof' if she was 'rescued,' too, but at least if she was 'rescued,' the younger version of herself could see her sister again.

They've spent two nights lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, clutching each other's hands, and worrying. James tried to joke, "Maybe we'll both be rescued. You and me can swoop in and try to play matchmaker." The thought of playing matchmaker – to themselves – did make her laugh.

Their worry was for naught, though. The Oceanic 6: Jack, Kate, Hurley, Sayid, Sun, Aaron. When the names were finally released, God, that had been the key. This press conference they're watching now is pure old-fashioned entertainment.

Miles throws a piece of popcorn at the screen while the assembled reporters laugh at Hurley's wit.

Sun is speaking now. "She asked if my husband was one of the people who died on the island."

The silence in the giant hangar is deafening. A camera shutter closes and clicks. The folks watching back home in Beverly Hills grow uncomfortably quiet, too. On the screen, Sun says, "The answer is no. He never made it off the plane."

Juliet takes an audible, deep breath. James clears his throat, and Miles rustles through his popcorn bowl. Here they sit, gray and sore-kneed and balding. Here they sit in the oak-paneled den with a wall full of family photos. They sit and think about their friend. Miles' roommate. He taught Juliet to curse in Korean. He was the one who kept telling James, "You must take her flowers. She will love it."

"Jin." Miles whispers the name on everyone's mind.

"Papa-san," James responds.

"At least Sun and the baby are safe," Juliet says. Jin, wherever, whenever, he is (if he's still alive somewhere) would be so happy to know that.

There's a clamoring on the TV, shouted questions, all directed at Kate.

"Damn, she looks young," James whistles.

The questions are all about Aaron's birth. "It's all bullshit!" Miles shouts. James throws popcorn. They're back to heckling. Juliet smiles.

The woman running the presser says, "Uh, I'm afraid Ms. Austen's legal issue is off the table. Next question."

Miles says, "Can you believe she got off with probation? When Hurley told me that . . Shit, man."

"No joke," James agrees. "If I'd of known being a plane crash survivor entitles you to a little legal leeway, no way in hell I would've jumped out of that damn chopper. No way." He thinks for a second. "Guess it's a good thing I didn't know." He takes Juliet's hand.

Miles tosses popcorn at them. "Gag," he says.

Juliet says, "Kate didn't get a light sentence because she was a plane crash survivor."

"What now?" James asks.

"No. Hurley bribed the DA. That's why she got a light sentence."

"How do you know all this?" Miles asks.

"Jack told me."

"And you're just tellin' us now?" James accuses.

She sort of thought she _had_ told them. But, damn, that had been a crazy time.

"It must have slipped my mind," she murmurs, thinking.

FLASHBACK

Juliet grips the sides of the stainless steel sink basin. The adrenaline in her bloodstream is slowly draining, leaving low level queasiness in its wake. What did she just do? _What did she just do?_ And why? Why did she talk Jack into helping? Why was it so important? Why couldn't she let Ben die? Because it's wrong to let a kid die.

Still, though. All this debate. Three years of it. Could they change the future? Would they if they could? And here was her chance. Let him die. Let Ben die, and she never comes to this damn Island in the first place. Never leaves Rachel. Never kills a man (two men. Three?).

She should've let him die. These past few years have been really, really good. Great, even, but they're just a little while. An eyeblink really, and wouldn't she trade them away in exchange for never leaving home? In a heartbeat she would, yes. If she could change the future, wouldn't that future version of herself out there somewhere . . . wouldn't that version of her be ignorant of these past few wonderful years?

Or . . . something. The thought of it makes her head hurt. Makes her dizzy. Or maybe what's making her dizzy is the water swirling around the drain. She splashes some on her face.

She hears the double doors from the operatory open. Jack strides in, glaring at her, accusatory. He walks to the sink and she sidles out of the way. He puts his hands under to wash. He scrubs, scrubs, scrubs. She considers making a joke ("You 'scrub in' _before_ surgery, Jack."), but bites her tongue. No point antagonizing him.

He's furiously drying his hands on a towel. He deigns to speak to her then. "He'll be fine. Keep him under close observation for the next 48 hours, at least. Someone needs to constantly monitor his vitals," he orders.

"OK."

He looks at her, hard. He's wearing white Dharma-issue scrubs, as is she. He gets a hint of a smile. "So, what? We'll do this again in about thirty years? Or did it three years ago? How does that work?"

She sighs. "I don't know. I was trying to figure out the same thing myself."

"At least this time you didn't have to shoot a colleague to let my friends escape."

She stiffens. He's trying to make a joke, but he doesn't understand. She killed a man. How can he joke about it? Because he doesn't know her, doesn't understand her. She closes her eyes, remembering how it felt (at the time, she felt _nothing at all_, and that's the problem now). She remembers Kate's despair at leaving Jack behind. She's since learned that James felt devastated listening to her wail for Jack. And Kate did eventually come back for him . . . for Jack, that is.

Juliet says, "I think James wonders why Kate didn't come back with you all."

"If I understood why Kate does what she does, I sure as hell wouldn't be sitting here."

There's a thesis defense's worth of questions she could ask about that statement. She chooses, "Off island, did something happen with you two?"

He breaks eye contact, folds his arms, unfolds them, purses his lips. He answers, "We were engaged. Does that count?"

She feels a hot surge of jealousy. Must be nice, out there in the real world. Out where you can go and do things like get engaged, imagine having a future, live like normal people. _And yet here you are_, she wants to spit at him.

"You can tell Sawyer he had something to do with our break-up. I'm sure he'll love that," Jack huffs.

_No. No, he wouldn't. He is NOT the insensitive ass you take him for_, she thinks. She wants to defend him, to yell it at Jack if she has to, but what would that accomplish? Instead she asks, "How so?"

"Kate was doing things for him, favors. Never would tell me about it."

"She was looking after his daughter," Juliet says. _And, good, he'll be so glad to hear she was doing it._

Jack blinks, jerks his head back very slightly. "He told you that? I . .. I just figured . . . Kate seemed to act like it was some big special secret the two of them shared."

Juliet shrugs. "Nope," she says. Truth is he told her the second night they were stuck here. No big special secret at all.

"He's got a daughter?" Jack asks. Juliet nods. Jack says, "God, I had no idea. That must . . . that must be awful to be away from her."

Juliet doesn't react. She can't say that James never met her. Last thing she wants to do is give Jack more ammunition for his "Sawyer's an ass" arsenal. Besides, if James ever got the chance . . .if they could ever make it back . . . he could be a great father to his daughter. She knows it. . . he just needs a chance.

"So you came back to get us to the future?" she asks Jack. Because if not, well, so much for James ever getting the chance to prove anything.

"I didn't know you . . ." he starts. He clutches at his head. He looks lost, but takes a deep breath, and says, "I came back because I was supposed to."

"Supposed to do what?" she asks.

He rolls his eyes (at himself she realizes). "I don't know yet."

She's been carrying around this teeny tiny spark of optimism. When they came back, she pretty much knew – the gig is up. They're going to be found out, exiled, sent back to the beach, tossed out on their heads or worse. That's what she knows. Has known from the moment Jin called to say they were back. But then there's been that . . . _something_ . . . a feeling she can't put a finger on . . . an almost infinitesimal something that might mean hope for the future. A hope that this isn't the end, isn't disaster waiting to happen, but instead their chance . . . their chance to get out and get back and live like normal people.

"I don't know yet," he just said. He's lost, confused, searching . . . and there goes her last hope. That teeny tiny spark of optimism is snuffed out, and now she feels sick._ No, that's just your imagination, and don't be such a freaking drama queen_, she chides herself. _Take a deep breath. There now, all better._ She'll go to the garage tomorrow, she'll just go on and try to pretend this can all get back to normal.

She changes the subject. "Miles said Hurley said Sun was on the plane, too."

He nods, and she sees tears in his eyes. He's so forlorn. She really has no idea how to help, and it's not her place to help him anyway. She tries a cheerier subject. "And Hurley said Aaron's doing well? Kate's raising him?"

Jack nods. "I guess to answer your first question – why she didn't come back? Maybe that's because of him. Or her probation. Or me. Or. . . well, see? No idea." He throws up his hands, exasperated.

"Yeah. Hurley said that she didn't have to do any jail time."

Jack looks surprised to hear that. "Hurley said that?"

She nods. "According to Miles, at least. Why?"

Jack shakes his head. "Hurley's the reason she didn't do any jail time. He won't say it but it's true. Surprised he'd even bring it up."

"Really?"

Jack says, "Did you know I perjured myself? Spun this great tale of Kate's heroism, saving people after the crash, even in her 'condition.' Just sat up on that stand, took an oath, and kept on lying. Thought that had something to do with her getting off scot-free. About six months later, a lawyer buddy of mine tells me the rumor going around the courthouse is that the DA was bribed. I mean big-time bribed. Rumor is close to a million. I don't know – maybe it's just a rumor, not like anyone's been officially accused or anything. Hurley denies it. Denies it till he's blue in the face, but, I mean, come on, not like we know anyone else with that kind of money to throw around."

END FLASHBACK

"Oh hell," Juliet mutters.

James looks at her, expectantly. Miles says, "Care to elaborate?"

"Hurley didn't bribe anyone to go easy on Kate's sentence. We did."

"We did?" Miles asks, incredulous.

"Or, well, will, I guess," Juliet says.

"Time travel's a bitch," James proclaims. Solemnly, his wife and best friend nod agreement.


	42. Sister Act

The truth's been out for a month. One month of patiently answering questions. One month of truth-telling. Since neither of her children have seen fit to ask, "And, so . . . did you ever happen to kill anyone?" she's been able to answer honestly. Jimmy stumped her with "And you just believed him? That cancer could be cured?" _Well . . . yeah, kind of . . . it seemed better than the alternative? _Rachel stumped her with "So, you knew these people were hinky, but you . . . let me get this straight . . . drank orange juice you _knew _was spiked?" _Well. . . yeah, kind of . . . it seemed better than the alternative?_

To their disbelieving stares, and head shaking ridicule, she argued, "And aren't you glad I did?"

James has had it much worse, though, with most of the kids' questions being about his past. When did you first go in juvvie? For what? Why'd you do that? Where are your parents buried? _Together! ?_ How many times have you been in jail? What for? But never for violent crimes? _No, never served any time for violent crimes (never got caught_, he leaves out).

Last night Jimmy and James spoke on the phone for about five minutes. James hung up, said, "He wanted to talk about the Lakers' game. Not a single thing about the Island, time travel, the past . . . none of it." And that's a milestone. That's moving on.

This evening Miles and James are out doing whatever it is 60-something, independently wealthy, retired security officers do. "Have fun at your shuffleboard tournament," she called to them as they left.

"Shouldn't you be knitting booties for the grandkid or something?" Miles retorted.

She knows what they're doing, and it isn't shuffleboard or canasta or a bridge tournament or any of the other "old people" things she can think of. They're having beers at the bar and reminiscing on the glory days and humorous adventures of their security careers. For two people who only did it "for the kids" (James) or "just to fill the time" (Miles), they sure do spend an awful lot of time remembering the good old days.

Juliet 'retired' in 2001. They had plenty of money. Let someone else take care of it for a while. Besides, she pretty much caught up in 2001, and wasn't risking betting their fortune on a future she wasn't sure of.

This evening, she doesn't have anything planned. Time on her hands, at a loss for something to do, she sets a kettle on the stove. She'll make tea. She's got the water on when she hears the front door open and someone call, "Anyone home?" It's Rachel.

Juliet meets her in the foyer. Rachel's lower lip is stuck out, her eyes are pinched, and she's wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of her right hand. Juliet rushes to her.

"What's wrong, sweetie? What's going on? Are you OK? Anson? The baby? Why are you . . ."

Rachel nods a few times. "I'm fine, Mom." _Sure doesn't look fine. . ._

Rachel holds up a plastic bag. "Jimmy gave me this," she says.

Juliet peers inside and pulls out a miniature Red Wings jersey.

"It's a hockey jersey for the baby," Rachel explains unnecessarily, then sniffles.

"I can see that." _And it's making you cry because?_ Juliet tries a joke. "Sweetheart, I don't think Jimmy expects the baby to get out on the ice until it's two at least." What's going on? Why is she so upset?

"I know, I know. It's not that . . .It's just . . . I can't imagine. If Jimmy wasn't around, if he didn't get to be the baby's uncle. It would crush me," and she's crying again. Some more. The hell?

Juliet, alarmed, grabs Rachel by the elbows. "Jimmy? Is something wrong with him? Do you know something I don't? Is he OK?"

Rachel, exasperated, "He's fine, Mom. Chill out."

Juliet, equally exasperated, "Then why are you so upset?"

Rachel wipes both cheeks furiously. "Because! Gah! I don't know! It makes me . . Gah! I can't stop crying about it!"

_Oh, got it! Been there, done that. _Juliet laughs.

"Are you _laughing _at me?" Rachel's got her dander up, and now she looks so much like her father, Juliet has to stifle another laugh.

"No, sweetheart, just . . . I don't recommend watching any greeting card commercials till after the baby comes, OK? How about some tea?" She pushes her daughter toward the kitchen.

"Caffeinated?"

Juliet rolls her eyes. "It's one cup of tea, Rachel, it will be . . ." but she catches herself. _You never know, drink a cup of caffeinated tea, and maybe when your baby is 16, she'll come home with chartreuse hair. Never know. _"I'll give you an herbal tea."

Rachel crinkles her nose. "Nah. Too bitter." She laughs. "If you tried to foist a caffeinated drink on me, I was gonna say, 'Thanks, Mom, but I'll stick to what the experts say is safe.' Then I remembered. This _Your Pregnancy Week by Week_ book I've been reading? You wrote the first six chapters!"

"That I did," Juliet admits, with a self-satisfied smirk she hopes isn't too obnoxious.

Rachel chuffs. "So weird, so weird," she mutters.

Juliet pours hot water into her cup, watches the tea cloud. Rachel sits at the center island. Juliet says, "Now try explaining why this tiny hockey jersey has you so upset."

From her purse, Rachel pulls a small blue envelope. It looks like a boarding pass sleeve. "Jimmy can be a pain in the ass, but I couldn't imagine life without him. Which got me thinking." She waves the envelope in front of her face. "What are you doing Friday?"

* * *

Rachel's home early this afternoon. Too early, or not early enough, hard to tell. The bus will be here in 35 minutes, which means there's not enough time to get much done, but too much time for sitting around doing nothing. Maybe she could run out to the store and get more bananas. Nah. She'll put on some water for tea. That's what. Her mother used to always put on tea when she was at a loss for things to do. The kettle would start singing, and she'd call out "Girls! Who wants tea?" Rachel would crinkle up her nose. "Too bitter," she'd always say.

The doorbell rings right as she turns the eye on. She leaves the kettle to boil and walks to the front door. There's a woman standing out there, pushing her sunglasses off her face and setting them on her head. She squints against the sunshine. Rachel's not one to open the door for complete strangers, but this woman seems harmless.

"Can I help you?"

"Rachel Carlson?" her visitor asks.

"Yee-ess," Rachel stretches out the word. The stranger on the front step smiles. Her mouth stays closed, but the corners arch up, and her whole face smiles, up to narrowed, crinkly, smiling eyes. It startles Rachel. _Have we met? Or . . . who are you, and why do you look so familiar?_ Rachel takes a step forward to look more closely at her visitor. Wait, no . . . no, she doesn't look familiar at all. That was weird. "Can I help you?" Rachel manages to say at last.

"Yeah. Yeah. My name is Rachel LaFleur. .. or, well, no. That's my maiden name, I . . ."

_That name is familiar. Where has she heard that name before?_

"My family donated money to your therapy program."

Ah, yes. Yes. Well, now, this is odd. Rachel's non-profit therapy program arranges counselors for young women undergoing cancer treatment. They educate patients on fertility issues, and, when possible, help defray the costs of egg harvesting and freezing for future use. She started it up with Juliet's life insurance money. She's gotten donations here and there, especially from CMU, but from all around, really. The LaFleurs sent a nice, big check the first year she started, and every year since. No idea who they are. Googled and got some amorphous, slightly mysterious foundation in LA, and it all sounded so familiar, until she found out they gave Juliet a big grant once upon a time. Hence, their interest (hence why their name sounds so familiar? Probably). Rachel dutifully sends a thank you note every year, inviting them to please come out and meet patients, see some of her work in action, etc., but she never gets a response, just another check the next year. She certainly didn't expect this woman to just show up on her doorstep.

"I appreciate it," Rachel says. "But, this is my home. Are you in town for a while? I'd be happy to show you around at the hospital . . ."

"I'm not really here about that," says her visitor. "I'm here to tell you what happened to your sister."

It happens again . . . this stranger makes a face, with her forehead furrowed, eyebrows raised, mouth open just slightly and it's shockingly familiar. It looks like _Juliet_, and Rachel's anger surges. How dare this woman come here, mentioning her sister? How dare she?

She used to see her all the time. A tall blonde woman just up ahead in the airport arrivals terminal. A certain laugh one aisle over in the grocery store. Her sweater (Rachel was _so sure_ of it the one time) hanging on a hook inside the dentist's office. Somewhere along the line, it stopped. Or Rachel did. Just stopped looking. Stopped seeing the ghost of her sister everywhere. And now this woman comes here, mentions Juliet, and makes her think she sees her again? The nerve!

Rachel glares, but the woman staring back at her stands there looking hopeful. And looking nothing like Juliet, and is Rachel losing her mind or what? No, this lady may be tall, and it looks like she's working hard to keep her curly hair under control, but, no . . . Rachel's just seeing things.

She wants to tell her what happened to her sister? Sure, sure, heard that one before. From good-hearted, but misguided people and from con artists out for a quick buck. So, no, this is nothing new. She looks harmless, though, and, besides, how much money have these people given to her? Hell, Rachel still has time to kill.

"Come in," she relents, trying to sound pleasant, but also not too welcoming. "I'm sorry, tell me your first name again?"

"Rachel," the woman says with a smirk, and . . . there it is again.

Rachel squeezes her eyes tight. _Get a grip._ "Well, should be easy to remember, then," she says, shutting the front door behind her (this is probably not safe, but, oh, what the hell?). The tea kettle is shrilling from the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?" Rachel offers . . . Rachel (heh).

"Oh," the other Rachel (younger Rachel? Taller Rachel?) says, then laughs. "Oh. Wow." Catching her confused glance, younger Rachel (designer-sunglasses-wearing Rachel?) explains, "It's just that . . . the whole tea thing. It reminds me of my mom."

Rachel smiles. "Yeah, mine, too. So can I get you some?"

"No thank you. I appreciate the offer, though."

And _that_ reminds her of her father. Always full of stern pronouncements like the one about soft words. _Good manners and soft words have brought many a difficult thing to pass._ "It would do you girls a world of good to keep that in mind, understand me?"

Rachel leaves taller Rachel (fancy-purse-carrying Rachel?) in the den while she goes to the kitchen to fix her tea. This will give younger, stranger Rachel (expensive-shoes-wearing Rachel?) the chance to ransack the house and steal all her valuables and electronics. Hey, if you're going to invite a stranger to your home, might as well let them have free rein, right?

When she returns to the den, she sees other Rachel staring at a table of pictures. "This is your son?" she asks, gesturing to Julian in his Cub Scouts uniform. Rachel nods. Younger Rachel (Rachel with the honey-blonde hair?) gasps then, and reaches to pick up an old picture. Summer at Granddad's farm. Summer of 1978, maybe? Rachel and Juliet on a tire swing.

Rachel may have been OK with this woman ransacking her house and stealing her electronics, but she is _not_ OK with her pawing all over her family photos. The family photos are sacred, and she doesn't want some stranger gasping and sighing at her family. Rachel snatches the frame back, setting it on its spot on the table, running her fingers over a very thin layer of dust (she dusts every Monday, but it's Friday now).

"Why don't you tell me what you came to tell me?" Rachel demands, but she tries a small measure of conciliation, gesturing younger, taller, fancier, hipper Rachel to take a seat on the couch.

* * *

Rachel blinks back tears. She can't believe she talked her way in. Dad gave her all sorts of tips, pointers, how to gain her Aunt Rachel's trust. Her heart's been hammering away so hard, and she feels so shot full of adrenaline, she's not even sure she's used any of Dad's tips (like, try to read her mood, and match it – happy, hurried, grumpy, humorous). But she talked her way in, then she almost lost it. Holy crap, Mom when she was a little girl. Holy crap. She's never seen a picture of her mom as a kid. It makes her want to cry. God, this crying at the drop of a hat is a total, absolute pain in the ass.

Her Aunt Rachel (just the thought of it – an _aunt_ – give her chills) offers her a seat on the couch. Why Mom won't just show up at this woman's front door . . . OK, Rachel kind of gets it now. This is Mom's _older_ sister, and she's maybe ten years older than Rachel. Yeah, she gets it.

Now, though, she's got to tell the story, and if Aunt Rachel's already suspicious . . . well, this isn't going to be easy. She's gotten this far, though. OK, here goes.

"A lot of what I have to tell you, well, all of it really, is kind of crazy. So please give me a chance to get through it. I didn't know most of this until like a month ago, and I still have a hard time believing it myself." _Wait for her to acknowledge you. Set the stage so she's prepared for what you gotta tell her_ (Dad's voice in her head). Aunt Rachel nods. OK, moving on. "Do you remember the Oceanic 6?"

"Of course I do. They were all over the news again about a year ago. I always thought that Jack Shephard was _very_ handsome."

_Uh, huh. I always kind of thought he was a bit too Dudley-Do-Right._ "Uh huh. Well, so, their story was mostly a lie. When they crashed, about fifty people survived. And the other thing is, that island where they crashed, there were already people living there. Mo. . ." Rachel shakes her head. Oops. Almost slipped up. She clears her throat. "Your sister. Juliet. She was one of the people living there."

Aunt Rachel angles her head back, looks down her nose at Rachel. "That plane crashed three years after my sister disappeared." (_Oh God, if you think THAT is the crazy part of this story, we're in big trouble_.)

Rachel just babbles out the next part. "Right. Yes, that's true. She was there for three years before the plane crashed. Anyway, when the Oceanic 6 people got rescued, those six were the only six who got rescued, but the rest of the people got left behind. And, uhm, well, the reason they got left behind is because, uhm," (son of a bitch, does she actually have to say this next part?). "The island disappeared and went back in time."

"Really? Well, that's fascinating." Aunt Rachel plays along.

"Yeah, OK. I know it sounds insane. It _is_ insane. Anyway, yeah so, uhm, Juliet lived there for ahile, and she uhm, she fell in love with one of the plane crash survivors." (H_oly hell, why couldn't Mom and Dad just meet at a bar or something like any normal people in the world? Or even at the library of some hippy scientific outfit like she's spent her whole life thinking?_)

Aunt Rachel looks like she's simultaneously stifling a laugh and glancing at the escape routes available for ditching the lunatic on her couch. She just nods along, so Rachel keeps going.

"She was able to leave the island in 1977 . . .

"Oh dear. Did the plane crash survivor get to go with her?" Aunt Rachel is mocking, one eyebrow raised, and she's actually kind of cool and funny, and please God, please, let her believe me so we can be family.

"Yeah, he did." (Does Rachel really need to add to the confusion by explaining how Mom left and Dad didn't until later? No, no she does not. _Keep it to the facts, no embellishing, just what she needs to know_. Dad's voice again). "Anyway, so she's been living here, well in America, I guess, you know, uhm, since 1977."

"That must be fun!" Aunt Rachel grins and claps her hands. "Maybe she got to see _Saturday Night Fever_ in the theater, do you think?"

"I suppose. I just found out about all this myself. Anyway, I guess the whole point of all of this, the reason I'm here, is, because, uhm, well, your sister is my mom." No reaction. She tries again, "Juliet is my mom."

Aunt Rachel stares at her, blinks a few times, takes a sip of her tea, stares at her above the rim of her teacup, sets the cup down, picks it up again. She's not saying anything.

Rachel scrabbles through her purse. "Uhm, I've got some pictures here." She grabbed these two on the way over. Dad has like a whole box back at the hotel, but she just brought these two. Old pictures where Mom might look as close to what Aunt Rachel remembers as possible. She glances at the back of the first one. "October 1979" it says in Dad's neat, girly handwriting. It's about as lame and stereotypical a picture as you can imagine, the three of them standing in front of a real estate "SOLD" sign, Rachel, not even two, in Dad's right arm, him with his left arm over Mom's shoulder. She hands the picture over to Aunt Rachel. "That's, uhm, when we bought our old house," she unnecessarily explains.

Aunt Rachel takes the picture, and when she looks at it, her face crumples briefly, before she recovers. She just stares at it.

Rachel turns over the second ("Xmas '79" Dad has written). "This one's at Christmas," she tells Aunt Rachel. And again: unnecessary, since they're, you know, sitting in front of a Christmas tree, Mom and Dad smiling and pointing toward the lens, trying to get Rachel to look toward the camera (probably being operated by Uncle Miles), instead of looking up at Dad.

She hands it over. Aunt Rachel takes it. She looks at both pictures impassively, like Rachel just handed her an order form for the high school marching band wrapping paper sale fundraiser. "He's very handsome," she says with no hint of emotion.

She means Dad, of course. "Sure," Rachel agrees. A year or so ago, she found a really old picture of Dad and Uncle Miles at the beach back when they were on the island. "Wow, Dad. Wow. You were kind of a stud," she said. _How weird is that?_

Dad just nodded, supremely proud of himself. Uncle Miles said, "And, what about, 'Uncle Miles, goodness! You were a hottie back in the day?' What about that, huh?"

"You had a lot more hair back then," she teased him.

"I'm not even going to take offense," he said. "I know you can't help it. It was the way you were raised. Given who your parents are, well, I guess you can't help but tease your poor Uncle Miles."

Aunt Rachel's looking closely at the Christmas picture. Then, in a matter of fact tone, like she might say, 'The walls in here are light blue,' she says, "She's pregnant in this one."

Rachel leans over to look. "Well, uhm, yeah, yeah. That. . . uh, both of the pictures, actually. My brother, Jimmy. Yeah. He was born like two months after Christmas. Or not even two months, actually."

Dammit. Dammit. Why couldn't she wait for Jimmy to come along? She got this bee in her bonnet to come out here, bought the plane tickets for all of them and everything. Jimmy said, "Sis, I've got to work on Friday."

"Me, too. I'm taking a vacation day. One day, Jimmy."

"Exactly. One day, Rach. Jesus, can't you just wait till Saturday?"

And, no. No she couldn't. She can't wait. She doesn't have patience like Jimmy does. Jimmy always so cool and rational and patient, and Rachel's just not that way. Hasn't ever been. Now she's kicking herself. God, why couldn't she wait one freaking day? Wait for Jimmy. Jimmy looks so much like Mom. She should've waited.

Aunt Rachel stands up and holds out the pictures. Rachel stands to take them. "I appreciate you taking the time to share all this with me," Aunt Rachel says. "My son will be home soon, and I'm going to need to ask you to leave."

"Please," Rachel says. "I know it sounds crazy." Aunt Rachel steps closer, starts walking her to the door. "Bruce Wright kissed me on the lips two times!" Rachel blurts.

Aunt Rachel gulps, stares at her. That was something Mom said that only she and Aunt Rachel knew about. Bruce Wright kissed Aunt Rachel, and she wrote '_Bruce Wright kissed me on the lips two times'_ in pink nail polish on the back of the closet in her bedroom. Then they moved and sold their old house to one of their dad's co-workers. Aunt Rachel lived in fear it would be discovered. When they got to be adults, she and Mom joked about how silly it was, and how excited Aunt Rachel was that Bruce would kiss her – on the lips. Twice!

Mom said Rachel should just say that off the bat, and Aunt Rachel would know. Dad said that wasn't a good idea. He bet that she'd had all sorts of creeps and con artists ("Trust me on this," he'd said, ashamed of himself and his past) trying to get her to believe they could find her sister. He said that they'd probably been able to find something, somewhere, that convinced her they knew where her sister was. Now she'd be suspicious of it, and if Rachel said it first thing, Aunt Rachel would spend the whole time trying to figure out how Rachel knew about it and not listening to her story.

"Mom said to say that. She said you all are the only ones who know about that. You wrote it in pink nail polish in your closet."

Aunt Rachel looks sad, defeated. "Why don't you just tell me what you want from me? Tell me what you want, and then leave me alone."

* * *

FIVE MINUTES EARLIER

She listens while this girl, this young woman, starts talking about the Oceanic 6, and . . . well, yes, she remembers all that very well. The thought that people could be presumed dead, died in a plane crash, then return to life . . . that had all been very encouraging. Sure, three years had passed, but she liked the idea of it. Rachel listens patiently, steeling herself to not fall for any story, not grasp at tiny threads of useless hope.

Then, this other Rachel does her a huge favor. She says Juliet and a bunch of other people . . . get this . . . went back in time. Rachel relaxes. _Went back in time?_ Oh, that's a good one. Now she doesn't have to worry about false hope. Oh, but this is rich! Time travel!

She feels a little sorry for the woman on her couch. She looks . . . normal. She's well-groomed, and she's really very striking looking, tall and thin (although maybe very slightly paunchy in the middle), fashionable. She does a good job of acting like she knows what she's saying is crazy. _Yes, yes it is crazy, and saying it isn't going to make me believe you, no matter how pretty you are, you loony tune._

Then the kicker: Juliet is this chick's mom! Rachel fights not to bust out laughing. She takes a sip of tea, just to have something to do with her face that isn't going to be perceived as making fun of the cray cray. She sets down her teacup. No, she's still going to laugh. She picks the teacup again.

Then Crazy Rachel (if Rachel's even her real name) hands over some pictures. She's babbling about the first before she hands it over, and Rachel's interested to look, even though she knows for damn well sure whatever she's going to look at is a fake. She looks at the first, and you know what? It doesn't matter that she knows it's fake. It's a picture of Juliet she's never seen before, and she looks . . . So. Happy. So content. For just a second, Rachel wants to believe it. Wants to believe Juliet got this life, got to be happy. _Oh, God, Rach, what the hell is wrong with you? Gonna believe a TIME TRAVEL story? _She recovers and takes the next picture, which is a Christmas deal.

Rachel wonders where they got the Juliet heads to Photoshop on these pictures. They're really very well done, but this woman's family has money (if she is who she says she is), so they could afford a professional Photoshopper. The toddler in the pictures could potentially pass for Loony Rachel on her couch now. Maybe. Hard to tell.

Maybe it is her, and her poor mom and dad got unknowingly roped into this Photoshop scam. Rachel looks at them. Wow. Dad's pretty nice looking. Got an amazing smile at least, and. . . actually, yeah.

"He's very handsome," she says, lacking for any other thing to point out about this ridiculous idea.

"Sure," Rachel agrees.

She looks at Loony Rachel's mom's body, with Juliet's head so professional fixed on top. Here's where they screwed up, she thinks, looking at the family in front of the SOLD sign. Loony's mom is a bit wider than Juliet ever was. She looks at the Christmas photo. Much, much wider. Or, well . . . "She's pregnant in this one," glad to have something else to say, trying to play along.

"Well, uhm, yeah, yeah. That. . . uh, both of the pictures, actually. My brother, Jimmy. Yeah. He was born like two months after Christmas. Or not even two months, actually."

For the briefest of seconds, it makes Rachel believe her. It sounds so unrehearsed. If she's pretending to have a brother, she would've brought the pretend brother along . . . Maybe this is her dearest fantasy come to life.

The Miami PD called her in about a year after Juliet disappeared. The cop there was kind and understanding when he had her sit down. He broke the news that they weren't looking for Juliet anymore. She protested, and he said, tapping the open folder on his desk. "You said she just went through a nasty divorce?"

Rachel nodded.

"And her ex recently died?" Nod. "Meaning her research would no longer be funded?" Nod. "Your mother passed less than two years ago?" Nod. "Your father the year before?" Nod. "And your sister was your primary caretaker when you were suffering from cancer?"

"Sir, I know where you're going . . ."

"Ma'am, I hate to break the news to you, but we see this kind of thing quite a bit. Life gets to be too much, and people just leave it all behind." He tapped his notes, closed his folder.

"No," she protested. "No. That's just a bunch of facts in a file. You don't know her. She would never. . . that's just a file. . . just a file, that's not her." She was crying.

The officer handed her a tissue box. He was really very kind as he said, "Listen, if you ever hear anything, or someone else does . . . we'll be happy to look into it more. But we can no longer actively pursue the case."

She was so angry. Not necessarily at the nice officer, no, but at the idea that they could even think that. Juliet wouldn't. No. No she would NOT ditch her life. She just wouldn't.

Three months later she saw the tall blonde woman in the airport arrivals terminal. She race-walked over, jostling Julian in the baby backpack . . . and no, no, it wasn't her. Not even close, but she realized the idea that Juliet ditched her life was actually kind of . . .hopeful. To think she was "out there" somewhere, moving on, so much happier than she was in Miami. She really had been miserable.

This has been her secret hope for a while (one she doesn't fully believe in, but allows herself to fantasize about): Juliet out there somewhere, living life, maybe falling in love with a great guy, picking up some new career, happy, maybe a family (and Rachel always pushes aside the hurt feelings that Juliet's never gotten in touch with her to let her know it was all OK). She's imagined so many different places Juliet could be: Phoenix, San Diego, St. Louis . . . living under some assumed name . . .

That part always puts an end to the fantasy. Juliet couldn't live under an assumed name. She'd never be able to come up with a good one. Like that one time she called up and said her name was something ridiculous. Daphne, Rachel remembers that. Daphne something. Something French. La. . . La something.

LaFleur.

Oh, God. NO. Nonononononono. Who's the loony tune, now? Is she really falling for this story? Didn't she say she wasn't going to grasp at tiny threads of useless hope? And now she's falling for time travel? NO. No. She's got to get this woman out of here.

She stands up and holds out the pictures. Other Rachel stands to take them. "I appreciate you taking the time to share all this with me. My son will be home soon, and I'm going to need to ask you to leave."

"Please, I know it sounds crazy."

_Get out. Get out. Get out._ She invades her guest's personal space, walks her to the door.

"Bruce Wright kissed me on the lips two times!" Other Rachel practically shouts.

Rachel's mouth goes dry. She's lost the ability to think, to put coherent thoughts together. How did she find that out? Another in a long line of scammers. They always know something you think is private. They always figure out something to sell you on their lie. How did she know this one?

"Mom said to say that. She said you all are the only ones who know about that. You wrote it in pink nail polish in your closet."

OK, she thinks, you win. You win, dammit. You want something? Money? What? "Why don't you just tell me what you want from me? Tell me what you want, and then leave me alone."

"Mom's waiting out in the car. I wanted to tell you all this before she came in. Just so you'd understand. She feels weird. I just want to bring her in here."

Rachel's pushed Time Traveling Rachel to the porch. There is a car at the curb. There is a person in it. What's this all about, really?

Rachel sees Mr. Stevens next door, tending to his flowers. He's a retired security guy from FSU. He may be pushing 70, but he's a big dude, and could probably still handle himself in a fight. She waves over at him. If this is some kind of set-up, Mr. Stevens will stand up for her.

"Fine," she agrees. "Send her over. I'd love to see her again."

Other Rachel reaches out and squeezes Rachel's upper arms. "OK! Great! OK!" She practically skips down the front walk.

"You freaking schizo," Rachel mumbles. _This oughta be good, _she thinks.


	43. Days of Their Lives, 4

_**March 11, 1978**_

_Starsky and Hutch_ wraps up. Time to switch to _Carol Burnett_. But first! First, of course, a trip to the bathroom. Juliet scootches to the edge of the couch, starts hauling herself up. James leaps up, and offers a hand. She can't decide if she's pissed that he can get up so easily, or charmed that he's so quick to help her. Charmed, she decides. For now.

"What snacks do you want for Carol Burnett?" he asks, heading to the kitchen.

"Surprise me."

She pads back to the bathroom, and is she just imagining something, or is the floor here damp? Another step. Not imagining. It's definitely wet here, more than damp. She peers down to see what's going on. That's right – can't see her feet. She looks to the side. What? Where is this coming from?. . .

Oh, hell. She cracks the closet door. Closes it again.

"James?" she calls.

A clattering from the kitchen, James jogging down the hall. "What? What is it? You OK?"

Maybe she shouldn't have sounded quite so alarmed. She's scared him. She points to the hall closet, water seeping under the door.

He opens it, then slams it shut again as water pours from a pipe in the ceiling. "I'll get towels," he says. "Call the apartment manager."

It's a Saturday night, so the apartment manager gives her an emergency plumber number. She calls the news out to James while dialing the plumber. She has to leave a message with his phone service.

"Son of a bitch!" James grouses. She heads back to help him, but stops when she hears a knock at the door. OK, that was weirdly quick. She opens the door.

"Miles? Didn't you have a date tonight?"

"This afternoon, actually. I came here to tell you how awesome it was. And . . ." he calls out louder, hoping to get James' attention. "Tell Jim I think I'm gonna get to use that box of condoms he gave me."

_Too. Much. Information. _Explain again how she managed to get herself mixed up with these two men?

James must have heard him, because he calls from the hall. "And yet here ya are, Enos. If your date was as good as you say it was, you'd be using that gift now, not here braggin' to us about it." His voice sounds muffled.

"What the hell's he up to?" Miles asks.

"A Goddamn broken pipe, that's what!" James shouts from the hall.

Miles waltzes down the hall. "Shit," he breathes. "Need help?"

The phone rings. The plumber calling back. Juliet answers. Miles comes back into the kitchen. "Duct tape?" he mouths. She points out the junk drawer. He gives her a thumbs' up, takes the roll of tape, heads back down the hall.

She hangs up with the plumber, then goes to survey the damage. "Plumber will be here in an hour," she tells the guys.

"That's just fuckin' great," James says, up to his elbows in wet towels.

Miles is duct taping the leaky pipe. "I don't believe in a lot of things but I do believe in duct tape," he says, and the water is currently held at bay, so he must be right.

"I'll start pulling the boxes out," she says. Stuff they don't have a place for yet.

"Like hell you will," James snorts.

"So I should just stand here doing nothing?"

"I'll pull 'em out. You can go through 'em and see if anything's salvageable."

The first box breaks her heart. A shoebox, and nothing's salvageable. A few snapshots Miles took at their dinky "wedding"? Warped, sticky, with runny colors. The creased and battered piece of scrap paper James wrote his wedding vows on? She unfolds it, and the paper disintegrates in her hands. James' security report she stole back in the fall? Ink smeared and unreadable. Nothing in here's worth keeping.

What's this? She unfolds another sheet of paper that also falls to pieces. She stole this from Dharma, too. Came on the same sub James and Miles did. Motor Pool notes. She laughed out loud at her desk when she pulled it out of the folder and had to type it.

TROUBLE CALL LOG 6/27/77

_Time:_ 1430  
_Issue:_ Jeep #6 out of gas  
_Location:_ Sector 123  
_Submitted__ by:_ LaFleur, J., via walkie

_Responding:  
_Fitzgerald [NAME STRUCK THROUGH] (smoke break)  
Jones [NAME STRUCK THROUGH] (needed for Orchid run at 1500)  
Otis [NAME STRUCK THROUGH] (still on submarine shuttle run)  
Burke (dispatched 1437)

_Resolution:_ Tank refilled. Gas gauge malfunctioning. Attempted fix in field. Unsuccessful. To fix when JL returns Jeep.  
_Signed:_ JB, 1630, 6/27/1977

She laughed because, well, there you have it. In black and white. So, March 27. Wow. Those doctors are pretty sharp. Got it exactly.

She typed that sucker up, stuck it in her bag, brought it home, and slapped it down on the counter in front of James. He read it with a twinkle in his eyes. "Don't have any recollection of you doin' anything to fix the gas gauge."

"I had to have some excuse for being gone so long."

"Didn't think they'd go for 'getting knocked up by future fake husband'?"

"Probably not. Mack was a stickler for that sort of thing."

He looked at the page again, laughing to himself. "Jesus, I'm glad these clowns had something else to do that day."

"Me too."

"Everything OK?" Miles asks her now.

"It's all ruined," she says. "I really wanted to keep this stuff."

James appears at her shoulder. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you know, it gives me an idea. I been wonderin' what to tell the little one when it starts askin' why we don't got any pictures from before 1977. Think I just thought up an answer."

_**March 27**__**, 1978**_

"Well," Miles says, glancing at his watch. "10 PM. So, I guess it's not gonna happen today, huh?"

"Due dates are just an approximation, Oda Mae. Most babies come within ten days."

Juliet rolls her eyes. James has made himself into some self-proclaimed expert, reading everything he can get his hands on.

Miles protests. "Yeah, but, I mean, I thought you guys knew exactly. That trouble log Juliet found."

"You _told _him?" She yelps at James in indignation.

"Our shifts get boring sometimes," he attempts to explain. "Besides, would you rather I told him about the time . . ."

She immediately holds up her hands, like she's being held at gunpoint. "I don't even want to know how you plan to end that sentence."

"_I_ do!" Miles insists.

"Why are you here, Miles?" she asks.

"Thought the baby would come today. Maybe you guys'd need me to, like, I don't know, lock up or water the plants or something."

"And what happened to that girl you went out with? Shouldn't you be using James' gift instead of hanging out here?"

"I'm trying to ration."

"Good plan, Chico," James says. "That was meant to be a lifetime supply."

"How many was it?" Juliet asks.

"A box of 50," James answers. She laughs.

"Oh, hardee har har, you two. For your information, I consider it a year's supply."

"Almost once a week, Miles?" Juliet raises an eyebrow at him. "Ambitious!" James cackles.

Miles gets up to leave. "I don't know why I bother hanging out with you guys."

"My point exactly," Juliet says.

Miles stops halfway out the door. "You will call me, right? If anything happens?"

"Of course we will, Enos. You'll be the first call."

_**March 29, 1978**_

James rubs her feet, and it feels so nice. Actually, this whole thing is kind of nice. James is off today, and her last day at work was last Friday. This is nice, being together with nothing to do.

"This is nice," he says, reading her mind.

"Mmmm," she agrees, rubbing at the vast expanse of her belly.

OK, granted, it's 1978, and, God, yes, yes, she would give anything to see her sister. But . . . this is so nice. This is just about perfect. His fingers are so talented. They feel _amazing _on her feet. They're magic. God, she's always loved the feel of his hands on her body.

_**April 1, 1978**_

"Get your hands off me," she snaps.

He's kneading at her lower back, and God, it is so fucking irritating. He's trying so desperately to help, to do something. He feels helpless and is constantly jumping up to get her something, constantly asking how she's doing, constantly freaking touching her. So damn annoying.

His kneading shifts a little bit to the left.

"Stop. Touching. Me."

He stops moving his hands, but doesn't actually remove them from her back.

"What part of that do you not understand? I can say it in Latin if you don't get it. Stop. Touching. Me."

He sighs in irritation and disgust. He gets up off the couch. "I'm just trying to help. You know, the books say . . ."

"Shut. Up! I don't give a shit about what the fucking books say! Hell, this one?" She picks up _Your Pregnancy Week by Week._ "I wrote the first six chapters."

"You did?" he asks, taking the book from her, flipping to the front of the book.

"Hell." She realizes he doesn't get it. "I _will._ The eighth edition._"_

"Time travel's a bitch," he says, handing back the book. He heads toward the kitchen. "Can I get you anything?"

"For Pete's sake! Just leave me alone. Leave me alone!"

"Jesus! Sorry you're so irritated, but don't fuckin' take it out on me, it ain't my fault!"

"Sorry?_ Sorry?_ It's _entirely_ your fault," she spits at him.

"How so?"

"Have you read Chapter One of _any_ of these?" She's still holding the book she already has and ultimately will contribute to. She chucks it at his head. It misses and slams into the wall behind him.

"Christ, woman! You need me outta your hair? Fine!" He snatches his keys from the counter. "Call me in 13 years when you need money for braces."

"Leave me a number where I can reach you, and I'll be sure to."

He's back in forty-five minutes. He smells of beer and smoke. "Couldn't stay gone long," he says. "Just in case somethin' happened."

"No such luck," she sighs. He comes to sit by her on the couch. "Sorry I was a bitch," she says.

"Eh. I's bein' a bit grumpy myself. If I can't touch ya, can't get ya anything, can't do anything to help . . . hell, if ya need someone to yell at and throw stuff at, I'll be here."

She grins at him. "All right. You can rub my feet if you must."

"Thought ya'd never ask."

_**April **__**3, 1978**_

10 AM

The sweet-looking grandma (reminds her a little of her own grandma) misses the price by one dollar. One dollar over, and . .. stuck on Contestants' Row. Juliet really wanted that woman to get out, move on, win something great. "Ohhhhh," Juliet groans.

James runs in, zipping up his pants. He was peeing, and she didn't realize he was even paying attention. "What? What? What's goin' on?"

"She missed the price by a dollar," Juliet explains, gesturing to Bob Barker. For whatever reason, the _Price Is Right_ seems timeless. It might be those lame microphones Bob Barker uses.

James looks shocked. "Are you fucking kidding me? That's what you're moanin' about?"

"Pardon moi, but she reminds me of my grandma."

He snorts, throws his hands up, turns on his heels, and goes back down the hall.

12:30 PM

She's decided to stop being bothered by his constant need to help out. Instead, she is taking advantage of it. Right now she'd like some sliced apples and peanut butter. "James?" she calls out. No response. She tries again, louder. "James?" Goddamn it, if he wants to wait on her hand and foot, he should, well, be _waiting on her hand and foot_. "James!" she yells.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah?" he comes running into the bedroom. "I fell asleep on the couch. What is it? What's going on?"

"Can you get me some apple slices and peanut butter?"

He stands, expressionless. He repeats. "You want apple slices and peanut butter."

"Yes."

"That's what you're yellin' about?"

"Yes."

He shrugs in defeat. "Fine. Fine. Comin' right up." He comes back with peanut butter, and apple, and a knife. "You can slice the damn thing up yourself. Stop with the false alarms."

Whatever. She cuts into the apple, cuts a few slices, dips it in the peanut butter. She's three quarters through when she cuts another slice. Takes a slice of her left thumb with it. Blood oozes out, and instinctively she sucks at it, shakes her hand. "Ow! Ow ow ow ow ow!"

James comes running in again. "What?"

She holds up her thumb, still oozing blood. "Cut open my thumb. Can you get a Band Aid?"

"Are you fuckin' doin' this on purpose?"

"Yes. I'm cutting myself on purpose. What the hell? Of course not. What are you talking about?"

"I keep runnin' back here, cause you're moanin' about _The Price Is Right_, yellin' my name, yelpin' in pain. You gotta realize what that makes me think."

"So if I cut myself, you're saying I can't say 'ouch,' just in case you get the wrong idea?"

"What I'm sayin' is . . ."

"You know what. Here's the deal. If I go into labor, I will say the following: 'James, darling, could you come back here, please? I believe I am going into labor.' How about that?"

"Don't be a wise ass."

"Don't be such a nervous nelly. You know what? Why don't you go to Miles' for the rest of the afternoon?"

"What if something happens?"

"I believe Miles has this amazing thing called a telephone."

"Again with the wise ass."

"Go away."

"Fine."

* * *

James complains to Miles, and Miles listens attentively, hands him a beer. They sit in silence on the couch. The phone rings. Miles leaps to get it. James listens in, hearing Miles' end of the conversation.

"Hello? Yeah, yeah, hey . . .uh huh. Uh huh." He grins over at James, gives him a thumbs' up. James jumps up, grabs his keys from the counter. Miles keeps on. "All right! Great news! OK, you know we've been waiting. OK, thanks!"

James is halfway out the front door. Miles calls to him, "Well, good news! I got my dental cleaning scheduled. They were confirming my appointment." Then he hoots and cackles. "You should've seen your face, man."

"Fuck you, Miles."

"God, that was easy. You really believed it was her, didn't you?"

"Fuck. I can't go back over there, cause she's driving me insane, and I can't stay here cause you're a freakin' loser."

"Keep this in mind next time you think it's a good idea to have unprotected sex."

"Fuck you, Miles," and James leaves.

_**April **__**5, 1978**_

She's back on the couch. This is what she does all day. Couch for a few hours, bed for a few hours, cook dinner, couch until bedtime. It will all be over soon. Right? God, it has to be.

James comes in from his shift. He holds a white paper bag up by his face, shakes it a bit, and grins. He looks really very very appealing when he smiles like that.

"In this bag I got some of the spiciest tacos available in a twenty-mile radius. So, your choice is spicy tacos, or . . ." he drags the word out, making her wait in suspense. He grins again. "Or, some hot lovin' from this here Alabama good ole boy." He waggles his eyebrows. Goddamn, he is good looking. And so sweet, trying to do what he can to move this process along.

"I think the tacos would probably give me heartburn," she concedes.

"That's the spirit!" He tosses the bag on the counter, and approaches, already untucking his shirt. How he is even remotely interested in her right now, she has not the slightest idea. But he is so freaking cute, she's not even going to try to figure it out. One day she'll give him a hard time about how interested he's been this whole time, despite all his protests that he's 'never been in to pregnant chicks.' (Unfortunately, she'll wait until they're explaining the Whole Truth to their grown children.)

_Thirty minutes later . . ._

"So when is that supposed to kick in?" he asks.

"I don't know. Soon, I hope."

"Wanna try the tacos?"

"Can we just lie here for a little longer?"

"No problem."

_**April **__**6, 1978**_

She goes to the doctor in the morning. They'll induce in five more days if nothing happens. Nothing happens that afternoon. Nothing happens that evening. Nothing happens that night.

_**April **__**7, 1978**_

Nothing happens. Nothing is going to happen ever again. This is her life forever and for always. They've tried the sex cure again (and then again). More spicy tacos. A walk around the block. This is it. She is stuck like this. The woman who stayed pregnant forever.

James says, "Now you're just exaggerating. Ain't possible to stay pregnant forever. Ain't possible."

"Yeah, well, five years ago, I would've said time travel was impossible, and yet, here we are."

James speaks sternly to her stomach: "Hey! Hey in there! We're getting' tired of waitin' around out here, so if you wanna hurry up and get on with the show, we'd appreciate it."

_**April **__**8, 1978**_

She has fingernails. Teeny tiny, crescent moons of fingernails. He doesn't know why he finds this so remarkable. _Of course_ she has fingernails. She's a tiny person, and people have fingernails, but for some reason, it's the fingernails that get him, on her little hands curled just so, up around her chin, her left index finger uncurled, resting on the chin, as though she's some professor pondering the mysteries of the universe.

Like mystery number one: how did he have anything to do with something as perfect and precious as this? Juliet's in the shower, so he can talk out loud to his daughter without feeling goofy about anything.

"First off, baby girl, you gotta know one thing: your mama and daddy love you so much, and don't you ever forget it. No matter how old ya get. No matter if you go out and get a hole in your nose or dye your hair green. And here's another important thing. Listen to this. You gotta have better taste in men than your mama does, OK? She's made some pretty poor choices, and if you open your eyes again, you'll be starin' up at one of the worst choices of all time. But, between you and me, I'm gonna work my a… my behind off to make sure she don't figure out what a bad catch I am."

His daughter coos and twitches her face. She shifts her index finger, again pondering the mysteries of the world. His palms grow sweaty, and he shifts her in the crook of his arm. How . . .just . . . _how?_ How'd something like this have _anything _to do with him?

The door to the room creaks open. He figures it's just some nurse coming back in to check Juliet's temperature, see if they need anything, whatever it is they keep coming in here for. A flash of light surprises him, and he looks up from his daughter's face. Miles is standing at the door with a camera to his eye.

"Sorry to surprise you, man, but you just looked so . . ." Miles shrugs, unable to come up with the right word. "Is that her?" he asks, gesturing at the baby.

James thinks of some smart-ass response. _Who else do you think it is, doofus? _But he's not in the mood. "Yeah," he breathes, tilting her just a bit so Miles can see her face. Looking back on it, this might be his favorite part of the day. He'll remember a lot of it very clearly, just as much of it hazily.

From Juliet waking him shortly after midnight to say, "My water broke." And his murmured half-awake response: "That ain't some kind of fancy code talk for somethin' happenin' on the Showcase Showdown is it?"

Till the first moment he saw her. That's . . . that's kind of hazy. That's . .. well, that's when he almost fainted dead away on the floor. Because . . . Jesus. How? How?

But Miles coming in? Yeah, he'll remember that. He'll spend a lifetime being proud of his daughter, showing her off. This is first time, though, and, well . . . how? How?

Miles crouches down. He reaches out a hand to rub her head, but pulls it back. "Uh," he says. Then, "Wow. You guys . . .you guys _made_ this." He says it with no hint of double entendre, no wink-wink, nudge-nudge. He shakes his head.

"I know," James whispers.

"Wow. I can't fuc . . . I can't believe it."

James suppresses a laugh. He's already caught himself trying to watch his language around these perfect ears. _Jesus_, he thinks. _I am a profane, lying asshole son-of-a-bitch. Please, please let me do this right. Please don't let me screw up Juliet's perfect creation._

Speaking of, she opens the door to the little bathroom they've got here, cinching the cord on her bathrobe. She shuffles over to the bed, sits gingerly, and how? How? How is he ever going to fucking repay her for this? For this perfect creature in his arms? He gets the sudden urge to just run. Just head for the hills because there's no way. No way.

But he's better than that now. Or tries to be at least, and he sits right where he is, marveling over his daughter's fingernails while Miles gets up to give Juliet a hug.

"So, uh . . ." Miles asks. "Do you have a name for her yet or what?"

Not really. They didn't like talking about it. It made it seem too . . . real, or maybe they were superstitious or maybe scared or maybe weirded out. It is 1978, after all, and neither one is supposed to be 10 yet. So, when they talked about it at all, the girls' names were Petunia and Gladys and Gertrude, and the boys' names were Leonard and Ralph and Humphrey. If they ever got serious, Juliet always snuck in 'Rachel,' but James has always thought that's just a reminder of everything she's never going to see ever again. Why do that when you can never even tell your daughter she's named after her beloved aunt?

It always came up, though. 'Rachel,' she'd whisper or include in a longer list or say very very fast to where he maybe couldn't hear it. 'I don't know,' he'd hedge._ Really is that a good idea? _And the conversation would return to Gladys and Maude and Louise and Petunia.

Thank God she's not a boy, because no way. NO WAY was he going to give in to her other not-so-secret attempts and barely mumbled asides at suggesting 'James' as a name. NO FUCKING WAY.

He'll never repay Juliet for this. This perfect, perfect little tiny thing. But he can try, right? And here's a start. "Dunno, Oda Mae, but I think Rachel's a good name for this little one. Right, babe?"

Juliet grins at him. Such an enormous, genuine, face-filling smile, and it's about the tenth time today it's happened already, and, damn. Damn. How? How did he get this?

More importantly, how does he make sure he _keeps_ it?


	44. Ajira 316

The last thing they had to do? Besides sit around for years waiting for Ajira 316 to crash? The last thing was bribing that DA. Easier than any of them thought it would be. Hardest part was figuring out which of them would do the dirty deed.

Miles: It shouldn't be me. I hardly knew Kate.

James: Precisely why it should be you, Oda Mae. Cons are easier when ya got no emotional investment.

Juliet: I feel I've already done my piece, bribing the prison warden and all.

Miles: You're admitting to a successful experience with bribing a public official? Sounds like the woman for the job!

James: It can't be me. I mean, I had sex with her!

Miles: You had sex with the DA?

James: No, nimrod, with Kate.

And round and round they go. Miles even going so far as to say, "Why do we have to do this? We don't want her to go back, won't it be better if she's in jail?"

"She wasn't in jail, Miles. She was raising Aaron. It has to happen the same way. It has to," Juliet says.

Miles, maybe joking, maybe being argumentative, maybe just spouting off at the mouth, because that's just what Miles does, says, "Well, so what if things get changed? Is it really that big a deal?"

And, damn, right there outta nowhere, Juliet goes all fucking scary Others on him, cool and firm, and eyes just about shooting death rays, to where even James gets a little scared. "Because, Miles." She doesn't bat an eyelash, doesn't twitch a single facial muscle. "Because I will do whatever it takes to make sure my children are OK. Understand me? Whatever it takes."

Miles gulps, nods.

James is reminded of how much he once distrusted her and her Otherly wiles, how he found out where a lot of it was coming from. Not a week into their Dharma stay. Asked her what she was so anxious to get back to, found out about her sister. Found out about her cancer. Found out about Ben and the promises and the broken promises and her wish to go home.

He thought to himself, sucks for her, but, damn, damn, what she did for her sister? God damn that kind of fierce love? Wished he had someone like that. Weirdest fucking thing? He actually said this – out loud! To her! "Wish I had someone love me the way you love your sister." And why was he telling her this shit?

He started feeling awkward and planned to insult her or be crude, just so she didn't get the idea that he's some kind of emotional sap.

Except before he got the chance, she said, "Maybe if you weren't such a total asshole, someone would."

He laughed. And he discovered how easy it was to share things with her. Cause she didn't push too far, cause she somehow sensed when he needed a poke in the eye and when he needed a pat on the arm.

He remembers when they got married, and how he told her this. That his kid (and at the time never dreamed there'd be _another_ one) would get a mom who could love so fiercely. When he said that, when they were getting married, he wasn't jealous of his kid. Never was jealous of neither of 'em (well, not true. Jealous now of how they're young and he isn't). No, he never begrudged any of the things they had, house full of love, rules, and ultimately, money. Besides, he got that fierce love from her, too. Got it, and, wonder of wonders, thinks now that he probably deserves it.

"I'll deal with the DA," he says. He hates conning. Hates it with a passion. But this is for his life. This is for his kids. This is for his wife. And you know what? This is for Kate. She was more than the first woman he ever really loved. She was the first _person_ who ever let him in – the real him. He owes this to her. Without her, he'd never have all he has now.

They give a sizeable donation to the DA's reelection campaign. "Sizeable donation": that's what the letter attached to the invitation says.

_Thank you for your sizeable donation to my reelection campaign. Please join me and other donors on March 1 for a private dinner . . ._

James goes to the dinner alone.

For two weeks prior, he shampoos his hair with some sort of generic, institutional, hospital-brand shit. It dries his hair out, makes it kinky and poofy, and given that it's already nearly white, he's got himself a nice little corona of brittle old-man hair.

For three nights before the big dinner, he stays up past midnight and wakes before dawn. Not nearly enough sleep, and the bags beneath his eyes darken and deepen.

The day of the dinner, he shaves with his right hand, so that his shave is patchy and uneven, with tiny patches of small gray whiskers here and there.

An hour before the dinner, he dresses in a suit he hasn't worn in a decade, and its fit is just a little off. He clamps two chunky hearing aids behind his ears (and gives thanks he doesn't actually need them).

Right before he leaves for dinner, he comes downstairs. Miles starts giggling. Juliet pales at least two shades. Miles' giggles turn to hearty laughter, and Juliet says, "Uh. . . It . . . none. . . whatever it is you did . . . it . . . uh, none of it is permanent, is it?"

Perfect! Just the reaction he was looking for, and he limps off, harmless old man, to his big dinner with the DA. He, the harmless old man (who made a _sizeable_ donation) manages to worm his way into every conversation he can. The DA complains that her Tahoe vacation just fell through. James offers their Lake Tahoe cabin for her use (_Note to self_, he thinks: _buy or rent Tahoe cabin_).

Then conversation turns to the Oceanic 6. James fiddles with his hearing aids (goddamn those are annoying). Kate's name comes up.

"Poor girl," says James. "Been through so much. Shame she's gotta be prosecuted." Other fat cats nod in agreement. The DA hems and haws some bullshit about equality before the law, day in court, think of her victims, blah blah blah.

Dinner over, James limps to the door, shakes hands with the DA. "Just wanna say I appreciate your work," he says. "Anything else you need for the reelection campaign, just let me know. Left a check with your lackey over there."

"Thank you, sir," she says, with her head bent to the side, with both her hands clasping his. She thinks he's some old worn-out geezer. One who can make sizeable contributions. Perfect! He goes in for the kill.

"Just wish you'd think more on that poor Austen girl. Just breaks my heart some poor girl like that gotta go through so much. Makes me think of my granddaughter, you know?"

"Of course, sir. I appreciate your input, as I do all the citizens I represent."

Course ya do. But this citizen has just written a bunch of checks to you. "Here's my card," he says, handing her some ridiculous shit made up just for this occasion. "Once that trial ends, you give me a call. We don't get out to Tahoe nearly as much as we used to. You need a place to get away, it's yours for as long as you need it."

"How'd it go?" Juliet asks when he gets home.

"Pretty good. We gotta buy a Tahoe lake house, but otherwise, think we're good." He smiles at her. Yeah, he hates conning, but a successful con? Kind of puts him in the mood.

"Please go do something about your hair, and, and. . . and, all of it, actually." She bends over and kisses him on his forehead. "You are way too grandpa-looking right now, bud."

_**January 6, 2008**_

James grins at his son, waves an exaggerated goodbye. Jimmy's beet red, but grinning, too, proud of himself and embarrassed, rolling his eyes at Dear Old Dad before loping off down the hall to the elevator bank.

James closes the heavy hotel door behind him, lightly bangs his forehead against the "In Case of Fire" hotel evacuation map on the back of the door. Jesus. How? How did this happen? Last night, his daughter's wedding night, and he can only imagine what she and her new husband were up to. Check that. Has no wish to imagine. NONE._** NONE.**_ Clearly, his son also spending the evening getting busy, and just . . _.how_? And. . . ewwwwwwww. He gets the heebie jeebies.

And what did he, James LaFleur, Father of the Bride, do last night? Well, he had to wait around for fucking ever, that's what. Had to pay the band, and slip a tip to the wait staff, and see to it that the photographer was all set, and only had to do all that shit because he had no desire to do what Juliet was doing: hobnobbing and socializing and making sure to make a good impression on . . . get this . . . _their in-laws_. They have no family except the four of them (well, Miles) . . . no parents or siblings or cousins or nieces or nephews (none that anyone knows about, at least) . . . and now they just up and got themselves a passel of folks who're . . . family? Kind of? So, someone had to make kissy face and nice nice, and he didn't want to be the one to do it. So, he waited to pay the band and wrangle some way for them to load up their instruments in the hotel loading zone.

So last night? Last night they didn't get back to their hotel room till after midnight. And, well, you know, Jesus (How? _How?_), he's in his late 60s, OK? They're _both_ in their late 60s, and it was just really fucking busy and stressful and emotional day and after midnight, and there's always tomorrow, and so, yeah, yeah, he turned in for a good night sleep.

How? How did he get old enough where his children could . . . well, _whatever_… while he chooses to sack out?_ How?_ Jesus, time flies.

He turns from the door, approaches the bed, holding out the paper. Slowly, though, cause he don't want to miss one of his favorite parts of the day: Juliet reaching over to the end table to pick up her reading glasses. Favorite, because, first, he can always look down her shirt when she does that (he may be nearing 70, but he's not a eunuch, OK?). He used to think one day he'd get tired of that view. Then he decided the day he got tired of that view was the day they could wheel him off to the old folks home.

Favorite, because, second . . . her reading glasses? Yeah. Finally, fucking finally. Your eyes are supposed to go to hell when you hit 40. He was a little early to the mark. Juliet? Not early. Oh, no. Her 40th birthday approached, and he watched like a hawk. Was she squinting at the dosage instructions on that bottle of Children's Tylenol? No. Fuck. Was she holding the stock listings at arm's length? Again, no.

Then she hit forty, and he watched even closer, as though the birthday itself was magical, and she'd wake up the next morning unable to read the agate type on the sports page. But, no. Then things went to hell. He sure as hell wasn't gonna analyze whether she was squinting to read hospital discharge instructions. He stopped looking for a long time, and when he started back up, it was like watching water boil. Then one day . . . he remembers it exactly. March 1992, she was reading a medical release form for some travel hockey club Jimmy joined. Reading it at arm's length. And Ha! Fucking Ha! OK, so she was over 50, but still . . . 'Bout damn time.

"Mornin' four eyes," he says to her, holding out the paper. She ducks her chin, stares over the tops of her glasses. Back when she first got them, it was supposed to be a joke, he meant to make fun, but that first morning she looked at him over the top of her glasses? Was kind of _hot_. Joke's on him.

She takes the paper. "Who were you talking to out there?" indicating the hotel hallway.

Never been able to lie to her. "Wedding guest," he answers.

She leaves it at that. She peels off the front page and hands it to him. She goes for the section with the crossword. He sets aside the front page, no interest, he reaches for the sports, and . . . something on the discarded front page catches his eye . . . and . . .

"Four of Oceanic 6 Confirmed Missing in Ajira Crash" reads the headline. Wait? What? Ajira crashed? Uh, when? How did he miss this? Haven't they been watching for this for years? For their whole lives? How? Just . . . how? How did this escape their attention?

How? It barely made a ripple in the news cycle. Obscure airline, obscure route, crash not confirmed . . . and they would've seen it, they would've noticed, they would've known, if they weren't so damn busy getting their daughter married off. It only became news once well . . .

"What?" Juliet staring again over her reading glasses, messing around behind her head to put her hair in a ponytail. "What?" she asks again.

He opens his mouth, but words don't come out. She sees him staring at the front page, and snatches it from the hotel bedspread. She looks at him, opens her mouth, but words don't come out.

They sit staring at each other for seconds, minutes, a lifetime . . . a lifetime spooling back with a high pitched whine like a VHS cassette being rewound . . . walking backward from the alter holding his daughter's arm; college and high school graduations with the mortarboards zipping from the sky back down to graduate's heads; boxes speeding from their house to a moving van and from the moving van back to their house in Ann Arbor; a puck leaping from the net backwards onto Jimmy's puck; Rachel riding her bike all by herself, backward into James' hand while he pushes her on her first bike ride . . .

Juliet grabs both sides of his face before his life can spool back too far. "We're home free," she grins at him. "We're done. They're back, and it's got to happen how it happened. It's got to!" She's crying. She flops back against her pillows, kicks her legs a few times for good measure, giggles and cries at the same time. "You don't know how much I've worried, wondered. I . . . if our life got taken from us . . . I . . ."

Yeah, he knows. "Ever wonder if it could turn out different?" he asks.

She shoots a disbelieving look over the glasses.

"I mean, I dunno. Just one little thing different. Ya know they got timeflashed out, right? I mean, what if they got back to the right time? What if we were there when it happened? What's to say we couldn't have exactly this life – just in the right time? Rachel was already cookin', who's to say Jimmy wouldn't show up, either? What happened happened, right? Only if we'd of been there at the Swan Site when it all went down."

She looks away, furrows her brow, works her jaw. "Yeah, well we wouldn't have all this money if we weren't living in the past."

"You really care that much about the money?" he asks.

She shakes her head.

"Yeah, me neither," he says.

"It's nice, though," she admits shyly.

He grins. "You can say that again."

"I'm OK with this, James. I'm OK that we lived our whole life in the past. I used to wish . . ."

"I know you did."

She shrugs. "Besides, who's to say that it would all be good if we were there when they flashed out."

No joke about that. Like those shitty dreams he has from time to time (and, although he doesn't know it now, will never have again). Those dreams he gets when he sleeps on his arm funny and wakes up with it aching and throbbing. Those dreams where he's so fucking angry with Jack for no goddamn reason. Right. Who's to say it would all be good if they were there when the flash happened?

Juliet says, "For all we know, they're living in dinosaur days." OK, that's not what his dreams are about (he doesn't think so, at least), but, yeah, yeah, that would've been no good.

And screw figuring out what that was all about. Truth is, it's all over. There's nothing more they can do, need to do. All this whatever happened happened nonsense, and . . .no more.

He pushes all the paper to the floor. He leans over to kiss her, gently taking her glasses from her face. She smiles at him, knowing what's next.

The phone rings, and she starts to twist away.

"Don't answer it," he growls. She's still turning a little bit. He grabs her hip. "Don't answer it."

Bound to be Miles. He gets the paper, too.

She giggles as the phone keeps ringing.


	45. Sister Act 2

Rachel practically skips down the front walk, but slows as she approaches the car. The hard part is over, she's pretty sure of that, but she's not entirely sure Mom is going to get out of the car. She gets closer, and hears the mechanical whirr of the car window being lowered. The glass comes down smoothly, Mom, staring expectantly, behind her ginormous, goofy, movie star sunglasses (point of said sunglasses? Rachel has no clue).

Other than the ridiculous spy disguise, Mom looks pretty normal, pony tail, jeans, canvas slip-on sneakers, lavender v-neck t-shirt. Yep, yep, typical Mom get-up. "Dr. Goodall, I presume?" Rachel asks, setting a forearm on the car roof and leaning into the open window.

Mom doesn't roll her eyes or laugh (or both, her normal response). She sets her mouth in a straight line, looks out the front windshield, and twists her hands in her lap. "What did she say?" she asks, not even looking at Rachel.

"She said come on in!"

Mom turns to look at her. She takes off the glasses, and her eyes are huge, her mouth hanging open. "She believed you?"

"No. No, I'm pretty sure she's in there dialing up the local loony bin. So, you gotta get out of the car, Mom. My only aunt – the person I'm named after – and she thinks I'm more than just a few pints short of a gallon."

Mom stares out the windshield again, picks at the thighs of her jeans. "You think I look all right?"

"You look like you're gonna do a field study of ritualized chimpanzee mating behavior once you're through reuniting with your long-lost sister."

Mom sighs. "Maybe I should've worn . . ."

"You look fine, Mom. Fine. Perfect."

She looks like herself. Rachel and Dad had to sit in the hotel room this morning as she tried on outfit after outfit. This one "too dowdy" and that one "like I'm trying too hard" and another "too fancy." One from the hotel boutique got discarded after it made Dad's eyes pop out of his head. (_Gross! Aaaannnddd … Please let Anson look at me like that when I'm 67, 'k, thanks._)

The whole fashion show made Rachel nervous, because it just wasn't like Mom to care so much about her appearance, and when she finally settled on her standard Jane Goodall wear, she looked just about perfect. "I only hope I look half as good as you when I'm your age, Mom." Meant as a compliment, taken as a reminder of her age, and she almost got back on the outfit carousel again till Dad took her aside to say something to her, and of course, Dad knew what to say. Jane Goodall it is.

"How does she look?" Mom asks, looking toward the house. "Does she look healthy? Does she look OK?"

"She looks fine."

"She's forty, you know. Does she have to wear glasses?"

"I showed her those pictures from before Jimmy was born. No, she didn't have to wear glasses."

Mom says, "Your father used to . . ." heavy sigh, looks out the front windshield again. Then, "She's so young."

"Forty's not that young, Mom." Shit, wrong thing to say again. To Mom, forty _is_ young. "You know, you should've left the walker at home if you're so worried about how old you look."

Mom laughs – a real laugh. OK, Good. Making progress. Funny thing - they actually do have a walker somewhere in their house – attic, probably – from when Dad blew out his knee playing basketball a year or so back. Rachel had to drive him to physical therapy one afternoon and got a non-stop, profane earful about how the therapist wanted him to use the walker . . .

_. . . grumble grumble I ain't no old geezer grumble ain't no way I'm gonna shuffle around all hunched over . . . grumble grumble grumble grumble._

"_Shut UP, Dad! … I think I just figured out why Mom won't drive you."_

Later she overheard him tell Uncle Miles, "Juliet's on my case about that damn walker. Now she's gonna withhold sex unless I start usin' it." Ew! Next time Rachel saw Dad, he was using the walker. Double ew!

Mom breaks Rachel from her reverie. "I've been waiting for this moment for thirty six years."

Rachel says, as gently as possible, "I know, Mom. So, you ready?"

Mom clears her throat. "OK. OK. Let's go."

Rachel opens the door for her. Mom gets out, clutching at Rachel's elbow. They walk up the front walk. Aunt Rachel is standing at the front door waiting for them, looking at them suspiciously, with her arms crossed, and Rachel starts to get _really _nervous. She can't imagine what Mom must be feeling.

They're halfway up the walk. "Oh my God," says Aunt Rachel, unfolding her arms to grip the side of her open front door. "Oh my God. Oh my God." She recognizes Mom! She recognizes her! She recognizes her! Aunt Rachel's knees seem to buckle, but she catches herself on the door, pushes herself off, and race walks down the walk, meeting them halfway.

"Oh my God. Oh my God." She's holding Mom's face, and then her shoulders and brushing Mom's hair off her face, and patting Mom on the head and hugging her and shaking her . . .somehow doing this all at once, while Mom just stands and cries.

Aunt Rachel pushes Mom back, looks at her. "I don't understand. I don't understand. What . .. what . . . how are you . . . what . . .what happened to you?"

"What happened is a long story," Mom says, smiling and crying, and pulling Aunt Rachel back to her.

"Why are you . . ." Aunt Rachel pulls away again. She holds onto the sides of Mom's face. "Are you . . . is this some kind of disguise? Are you in some kind of trouble? Why do you look so much older?"

"I told you – time travel!" Rachel chirps.

Aunt Rachel looks over at her sharply, like who is Rachel to interrupt this special sister reunion with her silly time travel jokes. Aunt Rachel's sharp look starts to fade a little bit. "You said. . . you said . . . wait . .. hold on . . . all that you said . . . it's all _true_?"

Rachel and Juliet both nod silently. Aunt Rachel doesn't miss their identical expressions. She claps a hand over her mouth and squeals. "OH MY GOD! You are her daughter! You said you're her daughter! You said that! You said that!"

"Right."

"Oh my God!" (If Rachel had a nickel for every time her aunt said "Oh my God" she'd be rich. Well, rich_er_). Aunt Rachel turns to her and wraps her in a huge hug. "Oh my God." (Ching! Ring up another nickel.) Rachel hugs back, and now she's crying, too, and this can't even be blamed on pregnancy hormones. Aunt Rachel says, "It's so nice to meet you, honey. Oh my God." (Ching!)

Aunt Rachel breaks the hug, reaches over to take Mom's hands, squeezes them. Everyone's crying now. Aunt Rachel says, "He promised me he'd get you back in one piece. He promised me, and here you are! Would've been nice if he also said you'd be . . . wait, how old _are _you?"

Mom rolls her eyes. "Sixty-seven."

"Shit!" Aunt Rachel blurts, then laughs. "Shit! Juliet, you're older than Mom would be!"

Rachel gets anxious. Mom's so nervous about her age, and maybe Aunt Rachel should tone it down a little bit, but . . .actually . . . Mom seems to be OK with it. She's laughing, even.

"Come in, come in, come in," Aunt Rachel says. She won't take her hands off Mom. Mom can't take her eyes off Aunt Rachel.

When they get in the house, Aunt Rachel is full of bustling nervous energy. She says, "I have tea made. Do you want tea?" Mom grins, a big huge grin, and Aunt Rachel laughs. She points at Rachel. "I offered her tea, too, and she said it reminded her of her mom." She puts her hand to her mouth, and stifles a sob. She reaches out to take Rachel's hand. "Thank you, thank you," she says.

Mom is distracted by Aunt Rachel's table of pictures. Aunt Rachel notices, and says to Rachel, "Oh, I'm so sorry. I got so possessive when you were looking at these before. I . . . I'm sorry . . . I didn't . . ."

Rachel smiles. "It's OK. I understand." Her aunt nods and smiles at her.

Mom picks up the picture of Julian in his Cub Scouts uniform. "Is he here?" she asks in a small voice.

"Oh my God!" (ching!) "I completely forgot. Shit. The bus will be here in like 5 minutes. I . . . I . . .I need some time. What. . . Oh my God. . .What am I supposed to tell him? I . . . need time. . . I. . ." she snaps her fingers. "Let me call my neighbor, OK? OK? She doesn't work Fridays. I'll take him across the street. Just a little bit. I need time. OK? OK?"

Mom is nodding, but can't seem to say anything, so Rachel supplies, "Yeah, yeah, sure."

* * *

Rachel's fingers are shaking as she punches in the numbers. Juliet and . . . Jesus CHRIST, Juliet's DAUGHTER, are standing in the next room, looking at the pictures, giggling and laughing. God, she has the exact same expressions as Juliet. Exact same.

Stop looking at them, need to concentrate on punching in the numbers. A ring. And another. Shit, did she mis-dial? A third ring. Shit. Maybe she's not home. Wasn't she supposed to go snowboarding with friends out West? Another ring. Crap. What is Rachel going to tell Julian? She needs more time. Dammit. More time. Comeon comeon comeon pickup pickup pickup.

"Hello?"

Ohthankgod. Rachel exhales. "Lauren? It's Rachel. Can you do me a huge favor?"

"Yeah . . .you OK? Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing's wrong. It's all good. All good. I just . . . I need half an hour. Do you think you can take J for half an hour?"

"You need me to pick him up off the bus?"

"He's not expecting you. Can you meet me at the stop?"

"Well, I was on my way to the mall to return some stuff. Think he'd fancy a stop at the Lego store?"

"He'd love it."

"Yeah, OK. Meet you out there, then?"

"Thank you, thank you. I owe you one."

She hangs up and returns to the other room. "Give me a sec!" she calls to her sister and niece as she dashes out to meet the bus. She hugs Julian (What is she going to tell him? What?), turns him over to Lauren. Julian practically vibrates with excitement (Lauren always buys him ice cream, and isn't she a dietician, for Christ's sake? What the hell?). She waves them off and returns home. To. Her. Sister. And niece. Jay-sus.

She takes Juliet's hand. She's still here. She's still here. She's still here. She's like, older than Mom. But she looks good. She looks OK. She looks happy. Rachel explains/apologizes. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what to tell him about you. He knows about you, of course. I just . . . I don't know what to tell him about you showing up, about . . . well, your age. . . Oh, God, you must think I'm the world's worst mother, keeping the truth from him."

Juliet's eyes look very kind as she shakes her head.

Rachel (the other Rachel, Juliet's daughter, Rachel) says, "Somehow I doubt she's got a problem with keeping the truth from kids."

"Rachel," Juliet admonishes.

"Seriously, Mom," other Rachel says. She looks at Rachel. "Keep in mind, she just told _us_ the truth about a month ago."

Rachel remembers. "Us? That's right. You have a son, too?" Juliet nods. Oh my God. A nephew. She hasn't even seen his picture. And, wait, a brother-in-law? And . . . "Just the two kids?" she asks.

"Says the woman with just one kid," Juliet says. "Yes, just the two kids. Two kids, one husband, and once upon a time, a turtle and a cat. Annnnd. . ." drawn out with a flourish. "A grandbaby soon." She puts an arm around her daughter's shoulder and squeezes.

Rachel squeals. She loves babies. And! And! "You're going to be a grandma?" She laughs and claps her hands. "Oh that's so awesome, Granny! You old biddy!"

"You're going to be a great aunt," Juliet points out.

"In more ways than one, I hope," Rachel says, reaching out to hug her niece. This is so weird. This is so weird.

"Should I call Dad?" younger Rachel asks.

"Dad? Your dad is here?"

Juliet answers, "He's at the hotel, we didn't want to overwhelm you. He can be . . ."

"Overwhelming," niece Rachel supplies, getting a sharp look from her mother in return.

Rachel feels her heart in her throat. Shit. Shit, Juliet did it again, did she? Will she never learn? Rachel asks, cautiously, "Is he . . . is he a nice guy?"

Other Rachel laughs. "Dad? Oh God. Hell, no, he's not a nice guy."

Juliet's shaking her head at her daughter, and well, fuck, she _did_ go and do it again. What is it with her and men? "Juliet," Rachel sighs, voice full of disappointment.

* * *

Shit. What's going on? What did she say? Dad? A 'nice guy'? That's laughable. 'Nice guys' talk quietly and keep their opinions to themselves and use proper grammar for crying out loud. Jimmy's a 'nice guy.' Anson's a 'nice guy.' Dad? Not a 'nice guy.' But what's the big deal?

Aunt Rachel says, "Oh, Juliet, all this time, and you still went and married a jerk?"

_Oh, no, no, no, no, no._ Rachel starts shaking her head. Oh, that's not what she meant . . . _at all._ Not even close, and this has got to have something to do with Mom's . . . ex.

Time travel is WEIRD. It's just NOT NORMAL, but this ex-husband of Mom's? The fact that he existed at all? And what he looked like (on the Internet at least)? Now that's just the WEIRDEST THING EVER (well, after Dad being a common criminal. So, it's SECOND WEIRDEST THING EVER). Plus, it turns out he was a total jerk. Cheated on Mom! _Cheated_ on her! And now Aunt Rachel has the wrong idea about Dad.

_Oh, no, no, no, no, no. _

Rachel says, "Oh, no. No. Not like that. Oh, don't get the wrong idea. I was just . . . just . . . Dad has a . . ." choosing her words as carefully as humanly possible, ". . . he has a . . . really big personality. He curses a lot. He doesn't speak English properly. He's not a _nice_ guy . . . but he. . . he . . . he's a _good _guy." She darts her eyes over to Mom. Is it OK she's telling all this? Aunt Rachel's going to find out about his past, right? Or not? Or . . . Mom looks kind of encouraging, and Rachel continues with her diarrhea of the mouth. "He worships the ground Mom walks on. It's kind of gross how sappy they are, and he's a great dad. The best." Mom is grinning. OK, pulled that one off. She finishes, "He's just, you know . . . loud. And grumpy. And he does this goofy nickn . . ." And then she shuts up, because Mom's giving her the "quit while you're ahead" glare. "So, uhm, I'll call him."

"He was really good looking in those pictures she showed me," Aunt Rachel says to Mom. "That's an improvement, at least."

Rachel steps away to call Dad. She hears Aunt Rachel ask, "Where are you staying?"

"We have a suite at the Four Seasons," Mom says.

"The Four Seasons? No, no. Juliet! That must cost a fortune, oh, no, you can't . . ."

Rachel, waiting for Dad to pick up, drops the bomb, "We're loaded. Mom can explain."

She tells Dad to get his ass over here, and watches Mom explain about the stocks, her third career. Aunt Rachel moves her mouth up and down like a fish out of water.

Aunt Rachel pulls out photo albums, and shows Mom pictures of Julian. Sonograms, the delivery room, first day home, first Christmas, Halloweens, Little League, first day of kindergarten . . . Rachel laughs to herself – Dad has most of these same pictures of her and Jimmy in the shoebox of pictures he's bringing over. Mom is wiping away tears, Aunt Rachel explaining each photo. "Don't you think he looks a little like Grandpa C in this one?" They've got their heads hunched over the photo album, Mom's silver hair, Aunt Rachel's dark brown, and Rachel wonders if Mom's noticed Aunt Rachel's eighth of an inch of gray roots.

Aunt Rachel snaps her head up. "Wait. Wait! I just realized. . . I don't even know his name." To Mom's puzzled look, she clarifies, "Your husband's."

Rachel laughs. "They aren't really ma . . ." Mom cuts her off with a look that could kill.

_Oh, come on, Mom. Come on! That's the best part of the whole story! It's freaking hilarious. _They're like the stereotypical old married couple, finishing each other's sentences, sniping at each other over every little thing they've sniped at for more than thirty years (Dad's feet on the furniture, Mom turning down pages in books), having secret wordless conversations . . ._ and they aren't even married! _Mom must not see the humor in it.

"His name is James," Mom says, and Rachel rolls her eyes. Mom's the only person in the whole world who calls him that.

"James," Aunt Rachel says, trying out the name. "And how did you meet?" She giggles like they're middle schoolers. "Was it loooooove at first sight?"

"Far from it," Mom says. And, wait, scratch that about the not-married part being the best part of this insane story. THIS is the best part! Totally, totally, totally the best part. "Rachel told you he crashed, right? Shortly after that is when I met him first, but I didn't start to appreciate him until we first got sent back in time. Anyway, there was a scientific group on the island back in the '70s, and, you know, we got to be friends."

_Uhhhhhh. . . way to bury the lead, Mom. Actually, way to ignore it altogether. She tasered him! Right there on the jungle floor! _Rachel sighs, exasperated, and Mom shoots her a warning look. Mom has no sense of drama if this is how she's going to tell the story. Is it any wonder Rachel grew up thinking Mom and Dad were just boring, normal people?

"And then?" Aunt Rachel leads. "You got to be friends, and then?"

"And then, I just . . . well, we . . ." Mom shifts uncomfortably, looks over at Rachel. "Well, you know, he was . .. is . . . well, I just thought he was really . . ." another uncomfortable look at Rachel, "sexy."

_Ugh. Gross._ Sure, of course that's true, but Rachel doesn't have to hear about it. "I'll go wait for Dad, and you guys can gossip all you want about sexytimes." She fakes a deep shudder.

She gets up to look out Aunt Rachel's front windows, She can hear Mom say, "He was my best friend, and I figured sleeping with him was a horrible idea. Worst-case scenario, I lose my best friend. Best-case scenario, it all works out, we get married, have two great kids and become fabulously wealthy."

Aunt Rachel laughs. "Really."

"No, I thought best-case scenario was we could stay friends, even when the romance part inevitably imploded."

Rachel thinks it's funny Mom thought that. It's funny she was so sure it was going to implode. To Rachel, it seems inevitable that it wouldn't implode, but what does she know? Two months ago, she thought the most wild thing Mom and Dad ever did was have sex before marriage. Yeah, two months ago, she thought they were, you know, actually _married_.

Mom and Aunt Rachel keep up the happy chatter in the background. Rachel sees a taxi pull up to the curb. Dad gets out, reaches in the front window to pay the driver. He hangs in the front window for a while, talking to the cabbie. Rachel smirks to herself. Dad's always chatty with service people. With waitresses or hostesses, or whatever, he can always flirt his way into better seats or free drinks. With men, too, cab drivers and stadium ushers and janitors, he can always just strike up a conversation. He calls it "getting the lay of the land," and Rachel always assumed it was part of being a security guy, knowing what's what. She idly wonders now if it was also part of being a con man, this "getting the lay of the land."

The cab drives off, and Dad stands at the curb staring after the departing taxi. She sees him square his shoulders before walking up the front walk. There's a barely noticeable hitch to his stride, leftover from his knee injury. She walks to the front door to let him in. She stands, waiting for him to ring the doorbell, knock, make his presence known. Nothing happens. After a moment, she opens the door, to see him sitting on the front steps, elbows on his knees, staring at the street, his shoebox of pictures between his legs.

"Dad?" she gets his attention.

He turns around, "Hey, Princess," he says, holding out an arm to her. She sits next to him on the front steps. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, and she rests her head on his shoulder. She loves him so much, and she wants to ignore everything he did before she knew him. But she hates men who take advantage of women . . . and _he's_ the one who taught her to feel that way. It's very confusing.

"Why are you sitting here, Dad?"

"Scared to go in, I guess." She doesn't respond. He says, "How's it going in there?"

"Good. Really good! They're looking at pictures and gossiping."

"Mom's OK? She happy?"

Rachel nods. Dad doesn't say anything else, so Rachel asks, "That's why she sometimes got sad, huh? When we were little? She missed her sister."

Dad says, "You noticed that?" Rachel nods again. Dad says, "Yeah, yeah, she missed her. Figured she'd never see her again, so . . ." he trails off.

Rachel says, "She's really nice, Dad. Kind of funny," she then adds in a low, serious tone, "I even heard her use a curse word, so at least you know you've got something in common."

Dad raises his shoulders, shifts his body like he's laughing to himself. "Got your mom in common, too."

"Yeah. That too, sure." What's Dad's problem? "So, how come you're scared to go in?"

"I really want her to like me, Half Pint."

"Why wouldn't she?"

Dad says, "Mom's ex was a total prick, you know. Your aunt knew it, wanted better for your mom. Anyway, I wanna make sure she thinks I'm better."

That's . . . pretty much exactly what Aunt Rachel was just freaking out about. Rachel makes a little humming sound in the back of her throat, then says, "You're pretty intuitive, Dad."

"Part of the job," he responds. What job is that, Rachel wonders. The security officer one? Or con man one? Both, probably. Confusing.

"Don't worry, Dad," she encourages. "I don't think there's anyone you couldn't charm the pants off of if you put your mind to it." Erm. _Charm the pants off_ . . . bad choice of words.

Dad says, "That's just the point. I don't wanna charm her. I want her to like me. Just me, for myself."

"Now that's a bit more of a challenge," Rachel jokes, and Dad seems to relax a little when he laughs.

He turns to her. "How you been feelin'? OK? When's Anson back home for good?"

"Way to change the subject, Dad. I'm fine, and Anson's home for good after the inauguration."

"Uh huh. And, so, what's new with Jimmy?"

"You're stalling for time."

"Sure am, Half Pint, sure am."

"It'll be OK, Dad. Mom's in there, and she'll make sure it's OK. Remember how I said I noticed she sometimes used to get sad?" Dad nods. "Want to know what else I noticed? You could always cheer her up. So what if it takes Aunt Rachel some time to warm up to you? From what I understand, it took Mom awhile to warm up to you, too, and look how that turned out."

She stands up, and holds out a hand to him. "Son of a bitch, all right, hold on, I'm gettin' up," he grumbles.

She opens the front door and escorts him in. "Dad's here!" she calls out.

Mom and Aunt Rachel come in from the back room. Mom comes over and clomps onto Dad like they've got magnets in their arms, and he looks grateful for the support. He actually looks nervous. All Rachel's life, he's hidden nervousness behind jokes or grouchiness or surliness. She's not sure she's ever seen him seem honest-to-god scared like this.

Mom's looking up to him, though, smiling with tears in her eyes, and that must give Dad just a little bit of confidence, because he steps forward, holds out his right hand and introduces himself. "Hi, Rachel. It's very nice to meet you. I'm James Ford."


	46. Days of Their Lives, 5

_**March 11, 1979**_

"Bah buh buh bubububububu."

Jesus, what time is it? James rolls over to squint at his bedside clock. 6:08. Sunday morning, fucking 6:08, and his morning to get up with her. Son of a bitch, are they ever going to get to sleep in again? Ignore it. Ignore it. She'll go back to sleep.

"Bububububububu. Bah! Bah! BAH! BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Christ.

"I'll get up," says Juliet, already sitting up on her side of the bed, putting her hair in a ponytail. Here's where a better man might argue and demur, _it's my morning to get up, you got up with her yesterday, yada yada yada_. Screw that. He rolls back over to sleep.

He gets up for good a few minutes past eight. He feels maybe a little guilty over his lie-in, but he'll figure some way to make it up. Did she just get the days mixed up?

The den floor is cluttered with board books and wooden puzzle pieces, detritus from a morning play session. The stroller's parked at the door, so they've been on a walk already. His ladies are in the kitchen now, Rachel strapped in her high chair, happily grabbing fistfuls of Cheerios. She squeals and flaps her arms when she sees him. "Bah bah!" she chirps. Last week, he almost had Miles and Juliet both convinced she was trying to say 'Dada," until she shouted "Bah bah!" at the obese receptionist at the security office.

Still, it warms his heart to see her cheerful little face, her flapping arms, her chubby wrists. He gives her a zerbert to the forehead, and she squeals again. He zerberts again, more squeals. If it makes her laugh, he does it. He could zerbert her all day if she kept laughing.

"Mornin'. Thanks for the lie-in," he says to Juliet, who's leaning against the counter, waiting for her toast to be ready.

"Mmm hmm," she says, not looking at him, not changing expression. Crap. Is he in the doghouse? What did he do? He can't think of anything.

Crap. Did she find out about the money? The bets? The stocks? Crap. He's in for it. He's hiding it from her, because he knows she'll argue that there's no point in saving all that money – she's going back. She's getting back to the future, just as soon as she can. Or so she says. He doesn't believe it. Except he believes it enough to hide the money from her.

"Get the paper yet?" he asks nonchalantly. Whatever the fuck's bothering her, if she wants him to know, she'll tell him.

She shakes her head, still no eye contact. What's going on?

He opens the front door, picks the paper off the stoop. How come she didn't get it on her way in from their walk? How come she got up so early? How come she looks like her dog just died?

He comes back into the kitchen. Rachel squeals and arm flaps, claps her hands, and generally acts as though he's been gone for three years, not three seconds. He zerberts her forehead again. Juliet's got her toast now, and is absent-mindedly spreading jelly on it.

He sits, unfolds the paper. Then he sees the date. Right there at the top. March 11. Fuck. Fuck. He tries to remember this date. Birthdays are a big deal, he thinks, and this is one he always tries to remember. It's her sister's birthday, and it's weird how she sometimes hovers over their life – this person he'll never know (would probably scare the shit outta him if he ever did), this person his daughter's named after. Truth is, she doesn't hover over their life _that _much, but her birthday . . . yeah, this is always a tough day for Jules, and damn if he didn't let it slip up on him this year. If he has to, he'll blame _his_ Rachel for that.

He sets his paper down, reaches across the table for her hand. "Just saw the date. Sorry it crept up on me." (This being honest thing's refreshing.) "How old is she today?"

"Eleven."

"Beeeeeeeee! BAH!"

James throws some Cheerios on Rachel's tray in response to whatever that was supposed to mean.

Juliet's face crumples a little bit. "I wish she could know her. It doesn't seem fair."

"Nobody ever said life was fair," he stupidly philosophizes. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. She gives him a fake smile, but at least she's not crying. He pats her hand again, then gets up to get milk and eggs from the fridge. He cracks a few eggs into a bowl, scrambles them, pours them into a frying pan.

Speaking of frying pans (and speaking of being honest), he decides he's gonna say what he's thought for a while now. He's always been scared to say it, 'cause he don't mean to downplay her pain, or get into some whose-childhood-was-shittier competition (he'd win, hands down), but he's thought it and never said it. "I can't imagine what it must feel like to miss someone like that. But I gotta say, I'm kinda jealous. I wish I had someone. . . I . . . lotta times I think things would've been a lot easier if I'd of had someone to go through childhood with."

He turns to put the egg carton back in the fridge. Gonna hide his head in here for a bit in case she doesn't take that well. In case she shouts at him, "You think this is easy? You _want_ this pain? Trust me, buster, you got no clue what you're talking about."

She surprises him, though. "Yeah. You're right. I can't imagine what my childhood would've been like without her. My early adulthood, for that matter. My parents screwed a lot of things up, but at least they did that right. Nice not to be an only . . ."

"Beeeee baah bah bah!" Rachel squeals again and claps her hands.

" . . . child," Juliet finishes quietly. He's got his head in the fridge still, and Rachel's suddenly silent. Quiet has descended on the kitchen.

If he follows that statement to its logical conclusion . . . that being an only child is a _bad_ thing... Is she saying maybe they should try to have another? Or just stating a fact from her life? Why did she stop talking? . . . _Say something, Juliet, please, I don't want to jump to no conclusions._ His face is getting cold, though stuck in the refrigerator like this, so he closes it and turns to look at her. She's just staring at him with her poker face, so he raises one eyebrow. He ain't gonna show his cards first.

She shakes her head. "I'm going to be thirty eight." OK, so he's not jumping to conclusions, right?

"Or eight, depending on how you look at it," he argues.

"That's worse!"

He shrugs, and she smiles, a kind of half smile.

She tries a new tack. "I just finished losing the rest of the weight."

He shrugs again. "So, I guess that means no French cooking lessons. That's what we're talking about, right?"

She laughs. He's probably never gotten her to laugh on her sister's birthday. Not this early in the day at least. After a few six-packs, maybe. Never over breakfast. He presses his case. "We got such a fu. . . screw. . . messed up kinda backstory. Truth ever comes to light, doncha think she's gonna wanta have someone to share it with?"

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to try," she offers, tentatively.

He waggles his eyebrows, and leans in to her. "I can pretty much _guarantee _that it won't hurt to try."

She smiles a sexy smile, all lips, no teeth, and winks at him. He loves his daughter dearly, but damn, wishes she wasn't RIGHT THERE, 'cause he'd like to take Juliet, right now, on this table . . .

"Your eggs are burning," she says, standing to take Rachel out of the highchair. "Let's get you cleaned up, baby," she says.

As they leave the kitchen, he calls after them, "So, Julia Child, French cooking lessons? That's a go or what?"

"Oui, monsieur. Oui."

_**May 27, 1979**_

Rachel's napping, the windows are open, there's a nice breeze, and Juliet is lying on the couch reading _The Thorn Birds._ She remembers her mother reading this. Maybe her mother is reading this _right now_. Too weird. Does she have the same tastes as her mom? Some of them at least? She knows when the miniseries comes out in few years, she'll watch it, same time as her own mother. Weird. Weird. Weird.

As long as she doesn't think about her mother, this is just about the most perfect Sunday afternoon she could hope for. James is sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, working the crossword puzzle. He's grumbling, and she'd offer to help, but he'd snap at her. He wants to get through a Sunday puzzle with no help. She doesn't see the point. She always needs his help with the sports stuff, why can't he ask for help with the medical or car stuff? He grumbles again, and she has to stifle a giggle. She reaches out to stroke his head. He seems to relax against her hand, and she returns her attention to her book.

A few minutes pass before he grouses, "Son of a bitch!" He tosses the paper to the floor.

"This is why you shouldn't do the puzzle in pen," she notes.

"Well, thank _you_, Dr. McBraniac," he sing-songs. "If I wanted your advice, I woulda asked for it." He glares at her, probably itching for a fight.

"Mmmm hmmm," she murmurs, returning to her book.

"Son of a bitch!" He tosses the pen across the room. He's quiet again for a little bit. Then he says, "Heeeeeyyy . . . Any chance you're bored?"

"Nope, sorry," she turns a page.

More grumbling. He stands up, and walks to the record player, their Christmas gift to each other, and it's actually kind of cool, going to the record store, picking up brand-new oldies but goodies. He flips through their meager, but growing, record collection. She keeps reading. The music starts, but it's quiet enough (don't want to wake Rachel) that she can't quite make it out.

He comes to sit by her on the edge of the couch. He peers over the top of her book. "Looks like you're about to finish your chapter."

"Mmmmm hmmm."

"Wanna dance?" He's very close, and smiling like that, like how he does, and leaning against her knees, his hand at her hip . .. it's very, very difficult to pretend she's more interested in her book than she is in him. "Come on," he wheedles. "Just dance with me a little."

She keeps pretending. She has two paragraphs to go. She finishes the chapter. "All right." She folds over a corner, and shuts the book.

He cringes. "How many times I gotta tell ya, you shouldn't fold down the corners."

"Do you want to dance or not?"

He stands up and offers a hand to help her up. They dance. A new song starts, a familiar warping twang, what is it . . . she . . . kind of can't concentrate . . . he feels so good.

She puts her head on his shoulder. The breeze wafts in. Someone in the courtyard must be grilling. It smells nice. _He_ smells nice. They sway for a little, and his hands start drifting, over her hips, around her backside, and his fingers start stroking there.

"Thought we were just going to dance."

"Ain't ya listenin' to the lyrics? It's Mr. Marvin Gaye himself tellin' us to get it on. In a few short years poor fella's gonna get shot by his own daddy." His hands creep up under her shirt, fingertips on her lower back, and mmmmmm. . . "So, come on, do it for all the people with shitty daddies." She rolls her eyes, because that's about the lamest reason ever. Plus, knowing the future is just plain weird.

He's nuzzling at her neck, now, and she's going to give in. She actually kind of wants to give in (that last chapter in _Thorn Birds_ had been kind of steamy, so she's already in the mood). But . . .

"What about Rachel?" Naptimes are strange. You could probably operate a steam shovel out here in the den area, and she'd snooze right on through. Go down the hall to the back end of the apartment? You might as well not even take a deep breath, or up she pops, banging on her crib rails.

He pulls her over toward the new recliner. "Well, I been thinkin' we should christen the La-Z-Boy."

"Furniture doesn't need to be christened. And if it did that's not how . . ."

"Stop talkin'." He pulls her down on the La-Z-Boy, and tucks his fingers in the waistband of her shorts. OK, she's gone now. Gone. She's working at his fly, giggling.

"All right. For the people with shitty daddies," she says. She pulls back. "And I'm not implying that _you_ are a shit. . ."

"Christ, Juliet, shut up and kiss me." And, see, that's a song too, or will be, but he's taking off her shirt and . . . nevermind, nevermind, nevermind.

They're quiet enough to not wake Rachel. As it turns out, the recliner rocking mechanism is kind of squeaky, but not too squeaky. And at one point, James reaches his arm down to push the lever, opening the footrest and just about bouncing her out of the room. Still, though . . . not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

And not a bad way to spend a Sunday evening: at the apartment playground/deathtrap (seriously, most of this equipment is going to get sued off American playgrounds in thirty years) with her husband and daughter. Rachel's on the swings, and Juliet's pushing her from behind. Rachel swings towards James, who laughs, makes silly faces, sticks his tongue out every time she reaches the top of her arc. Juliet can't see her face, but she can hear her squeals of laughter, and can see the joy on James' face.

Why isn't this enough? This is enough, isn't it? So what if they're on a deathtrap 1970s crappy apartment playground? So what? This is more than she thought she'd ever have anyway, and she should go in tomorrow and quit. She should. She will.

She won't. Who is she kidding? At least five times since Rachel's birth she's made this same vow. She's not going back, right? She's not dragging her precious baby daughter back to that place. Right? _Right?_ Then she goes in and loses her nerve. She doesn't want to give up. It's giving up, right? If she quits. If she quits, that's it. It's over. She's here for good.

But what's so bad about being here for good? Today was pretty amazing, right? And then there's James' crazy idea that they should have another kid, and she's all for that, in theory. In practice, A) it's 1979 and B) Dharma typing and U-M security don't pay that much, and they live in an apartment complex of grad students with a deathtrap playground, because . . . did she mention? _**It's 1979.**_

This should be enough. She should quit. She will quit. She won't. No, no, she will. Or. . . no, she won't.

_**June 19, 1979**_

James is down to his last half hour on shift. This afternoon's assignment? Watch the monitors in Security HQ. He kinda hates it when he gets stuck here, because, come on. He didn't survive an airplane crash and a crazy mystery island, get shot back in time, pretend to be a ship captain, earn his way to head of Dharma security, escape the Island, fake-marry his pregnant girlfriend, have a daughter, and join the security team to sit behind a desk and look at monitors.

On the other hand, he can work the crossword, so it's not all bad.

The door to the office swings open, and he's surprised to see Miles here to relieve him, half an hour early. "Get your times mixed up, Enos?"

Miles doesn't answer, and asks his own question instead. "Hear the news?"

"Care to be more specific?"

"Dharma. They lifted the evacuation. They're gonna start letting people back."

Shit. Shit. "When?"

"Announced it today. Think people start going back next time the sub goes. A few weeks, maybe?"

Shit. _Shit_. "Shit."

Maybe she hasn't heard. Maybe he can get home before she finds out. He's working today, which means she's home with Rachel, not typing over at the Dharma building. Maybe she didn't find out. Or, maybe one of those chicks she's so buddy-buddy with called to let her know. But maybe she missed the call. They don't have an answering machine. Maybe she was out. Maybe she took Rachel on a walk. Maybe she took her to the playground . . .

Miles says, "Yeah, so I figured you might wanna get home before the news starts spreading. Came to relieve you early."

_Jesus. Thanks, Miles. When did you get to be so perceptive?_ And, wait . . . does this mean Miles doesn't want to go back? He's technically in the same boat as James, booted from Dharma, but doesn't mean either one of them can't talk their way back in. James asks, "So, this mean you're stayin' here for good? 1979 or bust?"

"Can't say no to all that dough we're gonna rake in." Yeah, Miles knows about the money. Has to. James stashes the cash over at his place. Miles says, "Anything I need to know? Anything going on?" He gestures to the monitors.

"Na da."

"All right, man. See ya. Good luck."

Fuck, even Miles knows there's a storm a' brewin'. They are gonna have a knock-down, drag out tonight. She ain't going back. No fucking way. And if she can't see the logic in it, then . . . well, shit, he doesn't know what then, but no way in hell is she taking his baby girl back to that place. Over his dead body, and maybe it will even come to that.

If he can get home before she finds out, though, then at least he'll have that on her. At least he can start the argument on his own terms at the place and time of his choosing.

"I'm home" he calls from the front door, full of nervous energy and fake Mike Brady bravado (_guy was gay. Did ya know that? I'm from the future, I know these things_). Something's already cooking for dinner, and it smells divine.

Rachel's in Juliet's lap on the floor of the den. They've got the Playskool Post Office box, and Rachel's trying to stuff the shapes in. James figures that, like always, she'll just keep putting the disc in over and over. The others frustrate her.

Juliet looks up at him. "You're home early!" She beams, and well, fuck. Fuck. If this was any normal day that huge, gorgeous smile would just about send him to the moon. Dinner in the oven, his wife and daughter laughing and playing. And Juliet with a smile that is bigger, brighter, cheerier than normal. A smile of happiness because he's home early. That smile is for him. Ha. Ha fucking ha. Today isn't any normal day, and what the fucking shit-eating grin does is make his heart fall to his feet. _She knows._ _She found out._ One of them fucking busybodies down at Dharma . . . Ellen, or Ellie, Eleanor or whatever her name is. She called over here, and now Juliet knows, and he hasn't seen her smile like that since . . . shit, maybe since Rachel clapped for the first time.

Can't she at least try to fucking pretend? Can't she at least pretend that going back doesn't make her so damn happy? Can't she just fake it? This fight is gonna be worse than he figured.

"You seem cheerful," he says evenly. _Why don't you just go ahead? Let's have it out. You ain't goin' back, I'm tellin' you that right now._

"I've had a good day," she stands up, gives him a kiss, another big-ass smile, and, well, if she ain't spillin' the beans, neither is he. "You OK?" she asks. He must not be doing a good job of keeping his anger to himself.

"Fine, fine," he grumbles, and goes to the bedroom to change clothes. Fuck. He don't wanna have this argument.

He should enjoy dinner. He should enjoy her spaghetti. It's practically his favorite. So of course she made it. Like she'll make his favorite dinner, and then he's gonna fucking say, "Oh, yeah, go back to the Island. Yeah, take Rachel with ya while you're at it. No, I got no problem with it, seein' as how you made spaghetti and all."

And Juliet? Well, she keeps smiling that stupid smile, like she's got a goddamn secret and ain't it grand? And why the fuck does it have to make her so happy? Does her life here with him suck so much that she's so damn giddy to go back to the Island of all things?

He can't take it anymore. Fuck it. He didn't want to have this fight in front of Rachel, but fuck it. He can't handle it. "Guess you heard the news, huh? Dharma lettin' people back to the Island?"

Her fork stops halfway to her mouth. "What?" she whispers.

_A ha! You thought I didn't know. Joke's on you!_ "Yeah, I know all about it."

"What?" she whispers again. Her fork still hasn't moved. "When? When did . . . Today? Did they make this announcement today?"

OK, now he's confused. "Uh, yeah. I just . . . I . . . figured you heard already."

She puts her fork back on her plate. "No. I . . . no. I was here all day . . . I . . ."

Well, shit. Now he went and started the argument before he planned to. Started it 'cause he thought she already knew, and then . . . what? God, he's a fucking idiot. She's just in a normal, good mood, and he had to go and read everything into it, like she's got something to hide, or, well, fuck . . . just when he was so confident he could read her, too.

He says, "Miles told me. And, yeah, they made the announcement today."

"Oh." She says. "Oh." She puts her hands in her lap, presses them to her stomach, like maybe she's gonna be sick . . . yeah, she knows the argument's coming. Knows as well as he does. It's gonna be a doozy.

Rachel dumps some spaghetti on the floor. No one moves. "I didn't know," Juliet says. "I . . ." she shakes her head. "Can we talk about this later?"

He agrees. What else can he do?

He puts Rachel to bed while she cleans up the kitchen. Once Rachel's sacked out, he comes back to the front of the apartment. At first, he's afraid she's gone, but then he sees her, out on their balcony, staring off into space. OK, here we go . . . First, he grabs a beer, pours her a glass of wine. He takes a swig of beer before opening the sliding door. He steps out on the porch, takes another swig, and closes the door behind him. "Brought this for you," he hands her the glass of wine. _Peace offering, OK? Let's start this thing civil, please. _

"Thanks," she says, without really turning away from the stars. She sets the glass on the balcony railing. So much for the peace offering. She says, "You know it takes millions of years for the light from a star to reach us. Or, maybe billions, I can't remember. Anyway, by the time it gets here, it's like we're seeing the past. Or future, maybe. I'm confusing myself."

"You can watch _Cosmos _soon. Carl Sagan'll explain it all to ya." Right? Right? Funny "living in the past" joke, right? Right, baby?

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that in the whole scheme of things, thirty years is not really that big a deal."

"Guess it ain't." He turns to look at the stars, too. He sips his beer. Time passes. Not thirty years. Or a billion. But long enough. He can't handle the suspense any longer. He finishes his bottle. He says, "I don't want you going back. I don't want to lose you, and it scares me to think of it."

She looks at him curiously. Yes, he just said all of that in the most proper English he can muster. It's that damn important. She shakes her head. "I'm not going back, James."

_Well shitfire, that was easy! _Goddamn, all this time, if he'd of only known that speaking proper English was the way to get her to do what he wanted . . . "Oh," he says. He smiles. He takes her hand, and she smiles back at him, and somehow he feels like he shouldn't gloat. Not like he actually won any kinda argument or anything. She just up and said it, came to her own damn conclusions, and, good. That's about what he figured would happen. Or, what he hoped would happen.

He ain't gonna gloat, but they can celebrate, right? His bottle's empty, though. He excuses himself, "Want me to get you a refill . . ." he trails off. Her glass is untouched, sitting on the balcony rail. From the moment he washed up on the beach, ain't no huge, weird time travel thing they've dealt with without alcohol. This decision about staying, for her at least, it's a huge fucking deal, and yet . . .

He's staring at that glass, trying to wrap his head around all of today's mysteries, and he's enough of a blockhead that he's got a dopey trying-to-figure-this-out look on his face when he looks at her again. She does the huge I've-got-a-secret smile from before. The one that pissed him off so bad. And . . . the gears in his brain engage. When they do, he figures the smile on his face must put hers to shame. Then he tries to look a little more serious, but he can't. It only makes the smile bigger.

"Well, I'll be," he finally says. "So. Say somethin'. Is it true? I ain't jumpin' to no conclusions?" he points at her wine glass.

She crosses her arms, acts like she's trying to be nonchalant. Trying to be funny, "I joined a 12-step program." She grins at him, starts giggling.

"Aw, come on, don't be makin' jokes."

"About 12-step programs? Never. 'My name is Juliet, and I'm a time traveler.' "

He puts his hands on her hips and pulls her toward him. He's leaning against the balcony rail, and she settles in between his legs. "What I wanna know," he whispers in her ear, "is . . ." He was gonna make some kind a joke question about their French cooking lessons, or a soufflé in the oven, or something funny, something flippant, and all of a sudden, he just can't. Can't be flippant. Her hair smells so good, and she ain't going back to the Island, and his whole life is just about perfect right now. And he sort of can't say anything, 'cause if he does, his voice may break, and he ain't gonna cry. He ain't.

"Yes," she says, hugging him tight, answering his unasked question. Her cheek's on his shoulder. "Yes," she says again, nodding.

He slides his hands down her back. He recovers enough to get a little flippant smart-ass going. "To be clear, you ain't joinin' no 12-step program, right?"

She shakes her head against his chest. She mumbles. "My name's Juliet, and I'm going to have a baby."

"Hi, Juliet," he says. "My name's James, and I'm happy about that."

"You are such a sap," she says.

And so what if he is?

* * *

**AWWWWWW, ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Jimmy!**

**OOOOOOOH. I'm having a crappy, awful week, so send me a review, and I promise I will use it to cheer me up/make me less stressed. Deal? Deal.**


	47. Sister Act 3

**Can I just tell you how much I really really really wished I hadn't named their daughter Rachel? These chapters with the two Rachels are _impossible_ to write. Actually, this chapter in general was just . . . maddening. But at least Whoopi made three of these Sister Act movies, so I didn't have to bash my head to find chapter names.**

* * *

Juliet can't believe it's really happening. She can tell how nervous James is, just by the way he's standing, with his hands hanging at his sides, clenched into fists, his thumbs grasping and ungrasping his curled up index fingers. She goes to him to hold his left arm, push her shoulder into his back, give him a little support, literally and figuratively.

He's known about Rachel for 34 years. Rachel's known about him for about 34 minutes. He could probably, if pressed, recall Rachel's favorite bands, movie, colors, ice cream flavor. If pressed, Rachel could tell you his name - maybe.

"Hi, Rachel. It's very nice to meet you. I'm James Ford."

There's something . . . _off _. . . about what he just said. His 'real' name, she thinks it must be. And her heart fills with a shimmering happiness that he used it. Why this should be so, she has no idea, because Jim LaFleur is a much better person than James Ford ever was.

Rachel smiles at him, and takes his offered hand. "It's very nice to meet you, James." Surreal. Surreal. Now Juliet is the one clutching on to James, using him for support, because this can't be happening, can it? This is . . . so . . ._real_. James and Rachel are still holding hands, staring at each other, sizing each other up.

James says, "It seems like I've known about you my whole life. I never thought I'd get a chance to meet you, and it is quite an honor."

Ohhhhkay, now she gets what's 'off," and it's NOT that he used his real name. Rachel, her sister, is still smiling at him, still pumping his hand slightly. Rachel, her daughter, is staring at him with her mouth open, eyebrows lowered. Why is he talking like that?

He keeps on. "Juliet has told me so much about you. I've tried to take good care of her for you, and deliver her to you in one piece."

Rachel flies to his arms then and hugs him. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you." She composes herself, and pushes away from him, wiping at her eyes. "Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Juice? Or . . . I've got beer, wine . . ."

"Water would be fine, thank you," he says. Rachel, her sister, smiles, nods, gestures them back from the foyer, towards the kitchen to fetch his water. Rachel, her daughter, still stares at him like he's grown a second head.

Juliet pushes him forward, "Just be yourself," she mutters at him.

"Yeah, Dad," Rachel murmurs. "Are you trying to sound . . . _British _. . . or something?"

He squints and sets his jaw and gets that horizontal wrinkle over the bridge of his nose like he always does when he looks upset or mean. He grumbles, "I ain't gotta explain myself to you two."

"There you go," Juliet smiles at him. "That sounds like the man I know."

"The man you know is a uneducated hick, and I'm tryin' to make a good impression. Ain't got looks to fall back on like I used to."

"You look fine to me," she says. "Don't be so nervous."

"Who tried on a zillion outfits this morning?"

She pushes him toward the back, toward the kitchen, pinching his ass as he goes._ Take the edge off, relax, come on. Chill out. Chill out. _Useful words for both of them to remember.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Barf," she says. Juliet wasn't subtle enough with the ass-pinching.

James stops at the table of pictures. He looks and then starts to sway a little. He puts his hands on the table for support. Rachel returns from the kitchen with a glass of water. She stops to watch him for a second. "Jesus," he says. "Ain't never seen a picture of you as a little kid, Blondie." That nickname again. Funny how he's started to fall back on it.

Hearing the "ain't," the double negative, it's Rachel's turn, standing there with the glass of water, to look at him like he's two headed. Baby Rachel (who's 30 now, but still . . .) nods emphatically, waving her hands toward James like she's one of Bob Barker's girls, and James is a prize to be won on the Showcase Showdown. "There you go," she says. "See? That's what he's normally like."

James runs his hands through his hair. He steps towards Rachel to take the glass of water. "Can I sit?" he asks her. She nods, and he sits on the couch. He gestures at the spot on the ottoman across from him, and she sits there, looking uneasy, perched on the very edge. Juliet sits next to him.

"I, uh. . ." he starts, then clears his throat. He starts in the strangely weird elegant diction, but slowly slips into his normal patois. "I'm probably your worst nightmare. I know I am not what you would want for your sister, but before I tell you what I gotta tell you, I want you to know that whatever else ya hear from me now, nothin's more important to me than my family. My life's pretty much one lie on top a the other, but not that. OK?"

Rachel nods, gulps, takes a sip of tea that must be cold by now.

Juliet says, "James . . ." but he cuts her off. Why does he have to tell all this right this minute?

But he does. He tells everything. She's amazed, but on and on he goes, his parents, his life of crime, the plane crash (he leaves out Cassidy and Clementine, she notes. He also leaves out going to Australia to kill someone . . .). He tells about time skipping. He tells about winding up in Dharma (again leaving out the part where they kill people).

He ends with, "I told them then my name was Jim LaFleur, and I was the captain of our wrecked boat. Then everything else from then, well . . . guess it was all based on a lie, but, now, just . . . is what it is, I guess."

Why did he say all that? Juliet thought it would be a good idea if Rachel got to know him a little bit before laying all (most) of his cards on the table. They _talked _about this. Now he's been in here barely five minutes, and . . . well, well . . .

He stares at Rachel, and she stares back. He looks uneasy, chagrined, and somehow defiant. She looks unconvinced and angry. They keep staring, a little High Noon showdown. The air positively crackles with tension. James and Rachel . . . right here . . . right now, same room, same time, same place . . . and _Juliet_ feels like the third wheel? She glances over to her daughter . . . OK, a fourth wheel. Rachel looks at her, looking as anxious and confused as Juliet feels. Juliet's quite sure the expression on her daughter's face mirrors her own.

Her sister finally deigns to speak. "Someone conned me out of about ten thousand dollars. Said they had information about Juliet. God, I totally fell for it." She seems very angry about this, and no wonder. Juliet guesses it isn't about the money, but Rachel's pride. Juliet was always the credulous one, Rachel the skeptical one.

"Yeah, that's what we . . . they . . . that's . . . that's how a con works. Kinda the whole point."

"How'd you do it, then? How'd you pick them out? Your marks?"

"Rachel . . ." Juliet says, and just like her "James . . ." warning a few minutes ago, she's totally ignored.

"Not too tough. Find divorce proceedings down at the court house, find out who's got money. Or, ain't too tough to find rich women in crappy marriages. Then, ain't nothin' but a thing to make 'em fall for you."

Rachel crosses her arms over her chest. "Well then how _convenient _that you happened to crash and then go back in time with _her_." Rachel points at Juliet, finally acknowledging her presence.

"Rachel, stop." Juliet says. She knew this would happen eventually. This was the whole point of waiting before saying all this. She wants to kick James. Or, you know what? Taser him. Taser him so he's lying unconscious of the floor, and will just keep his big damn mouth shut for once.

Rachel says, "No. I won't stop. You've been gone for seven years . . . or, or . . . however long . . . And you show up with some guy who's my worst nightmare – he admitted it! If he did all that he said he did, how do you know he's not still doing it?"

"Because it's been thirty-four years?" she offers. "Because if he got up right now and walked out the door, then . . . then what? He can't take all the money – the kids have half of it. If he left, I'd have the same life, just be down one cantankerous old man. Doesn't sound so bad." She shrugs. Not true. She'd be devastated if he left. She's been thinking of it off and on lately. Not how Rachel means, but they're getting older. One of them is going to check out before the other, and is it selfish of her to hope she goes first?

James reaches out to hold her hand. Then he turns to Rachel to say, "I told ya all that 'cause I wanna be honest. My guess is when we got back to the hotel tonight, you're gonna look me up on the Internet anyway. Right?" Rachel nods. "Well, then, better you hear it from the horse's mouth. I get if you're uneasy. Took her a long while to warm up to me, too." He jostles Juliet's shoulder. He looks over at his daughter who grins at that line.

Juliet can see her sister isn't convinced, but she's trying to meet him halfway. Or, she's setting aside her reservations for now, saying, "Speaking of lies, we need to figure out what we're going to tell Julian." They settle on Juliet being Rachel's long-lost Aunt Juliet, who, why, yes, Julian's also-long-lost Aunt Juliet was named after.

Rachel stands up, pulls a photo album off the shelf and hands it to James. "These pictures are from when she was about 13. Enjoy." A peace offering it seems like.

He accepts the album, opens it, and immediately starts laughing. No one looks good at 13, OK? Her hair was enormous, she was probably already 5'6" all arms and legs, skin and bones, mouthful of braces . . . He's still laughing. Rachel sits next to him, and flips a few pages over to point out an even worse picture, with a popped collar, jelly shoes, enormous neon-painted wooden bead necklace.

Juliet sits with her arms crossed over her chest. Fine. Fine. If they want to bond over what a mess she was as a 13-year-old, then let them. Let them.

The tension in the room slowly drains away. The two Rachels on either side of James, laughing, oohing, asking questions. "This is my grandmother," Juliet's daughter whispers, and Juliet nods sadly. Her poor children, to never even see their grandparents' pictures. She realizes, too, how long it's been since she's seen her mother's face, and she stares for a long time at that picture.

More albums come off the shelves. Baby pictures that make James clench his jaw, reach out to pat her on the knee. Graduation pictures that make Rachel – both Rachels - reminisce about parties and high school friends.

Before they know it, someone's tooting a car horn in the driveway. "That's gonna be J." Rachel states. "I'll bring him in."

Juliet's palms grow sweaty. James pulls her close to squeeze her shoulders. Rachel giggles nervously. "I have a little cousin," she says. The front door opens and closes. Juliet stands up to approach.

Julian stands there, all knobby knees and bruised shins, ice-cream stained shirt (and mouth), and . . . and, _my God_, Juliet thinks, _it seems like it was just this very morning that Jimmy looked exactly like this. _And if he was a knobby-kneed, ice-cream-stained boy just this morning, then it seems like just last week she was packing him off to his first day of school, too-big backpack, his big sister holding his hand on the school bus; and just last month she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, looked down again at the positive pregnancy test, back up to herself in the mirror. _Jesus, that happened quick_, she thought then, staring back again at the pregnancy test. _It wasn't supposed to happen that fast_.

Actually, none of it was. Because that was closing in on thirty years ago. _Jesus, that happened quick. It wasn't supposed to happen that fast._

Here's the ironic thing: if she could've gotten back when she'd so desperately wanted to, if Locke hadn't blown up the sub, if she somehow managed to be one of the lucky few who made it off with Jack, if she'd somehow figured a way off when they lived with Dharma . . . then right now she'd be hugging Julian tight and swaying with him in her arms and sobbing because here he is: this little life she created, helped create . . . whatever or how that works.

All that hugging and swaying and sobbing: What she'd be doing is freaking him the hell out, so that he would always be uneasy around her. So that he'd always stand back, cautious, and weirded out by that strange aunt lady who scares him just a little.

She knows better now. She knows because she once had one of these herself: a shy, skinny, 6-year-old boy. So she crouches down to his eye level, and blinks back an ocean of tears. "Hi, Julian, I'm your . . . mom's Aunt Juliet." She looks over his shoulder at Rachel, who's rolling her eyes at that line. "It's very nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you." She reaches out to shake his hand, and he returns the shake, a shy, uneasy, 6-year-old boy handshake.

"Uhm. Hi," he says, then turns to look at his mother for confirmation, encouragement, permission to go elsewhere.

Before he scampers off, Juliet digs into her purse. "I brought this for you." She hands over a box of Legos – a Star Wars spaceship.

"Cool!" His eyes go wide, and she can tell he's changing his appraisal of this old aunt his mom suddenly sprung on him. He turns the box over in his hands. "Cool. Thanks!"

She winks at him. "My little boy loved Legos."

He misses the past tense, because he responds to this news with even more excitement. "You have a little boy?"

"I did, yes."

"What . . . what happened to him?"

She smiles. "Nothing happened to him. He just grew up is all." And they need to call him. They need to let him know that Operation Sister Reunion was a success and he can get on the red eye and fly in here tomorrow. She'll get James to call him. She stands up straight, turns to James who is grinning one of his silly face-splitting grins.

She doesn't get a chance to ask him to call Jimmy, because James grins at her like that for just a second, then says, "Yeah, OK. I'll call and let him know it's fine to make his flight."

* * *

Rachel and Juliet are waiting for Juliet's son at the Miami airport arrival lounge. To repeat: Rachel and _Juliet_ are waiting for Juliet's _son_ at the Miami airport arrival lounge.

Rachel finds this whole evolution surreally normal. Well, this is what's normal about it: the hustle and bustle of the Miami airport. The assy parking lot attendant. The humid weather. The constant PA announcements about TSA alerts and tips on getting through security. Normal, normal, normal, normal.

Here's what's not normal about it: EVERYTHING ELSE.

Did she mention? _Waiting with Juliet. For Juliet's SON_. Just right here at the good old normal zoo of Miami International Airport. Look! There goes a sunburned tourist wearing a fanny pack. Normal, normal, normal, normal.

Here's what else is weirdly normal: talking to Juliet. They talked, talked, talked, talked until after midnight last night. James (who is, drumroll . . . Juliet's _husband)_ and Rachel (Rachel! _Rachel!_ Juliet's _adult_ daughter. Holy hell, NOT NORMAL) left and spent the night back at the hotel (suite at the Goddamn Four Seasons, not not not not normal). Juliet ended up staying in the tiny guest room tucked under the stairs.

ANYWAY, the point is, when they talked talked talked about what happened the last seven years (or, OK thirty seven years . . . NOT NORMAL) that was all very normal. They fell right back into the groove, and as it got later and darker . . . well, it seemed like she got_ her_ Juliet back. Not some woman closing in on 70 with two grown children. It was so normal. And that's just not normal.

They decided to have brunch together this morning before the airport. Rachel got ready to scramble for a sitter (or call Lauren, who she really doesn't want to over-burden before she can repay yesterday's last-minute favor). Juliet said James and Rachel could stay back with J. Those two (Juliet's _husband _and _daughter,_ JESUS) just nodded along, yeah sure, of course, "I hate fuc. . hate airports," etc.

Then a minor freakout, because she wasn't going to leave Julian with _strangers_, for Chrissake. And they _are _strangers, but they are also Juliet's _husband _and _daughter. _

"Rachel babysat her way through high school," Juliet, acting as job reference, said. "And James has over thirty years of childcare experience."

So she left Julian with them, and they seemed totally up to the task. Until Rachel and Juliet were pulling out of Rachel's neighborhood, and Juliet said, "Under James' supervision, Rachel hit Jimmy on the head with a glass candy dish."

Rachel, getting ready to pull into traffic, stopped. "Are you purposely trying to freak me out?"

Juliet smirked at her. See? Normal? Normal. . . God, nothing's changed, except . . . Juliet said, "She's grown out of the clonking people on the head stage." SEE? Not normal. Not normal. Because "she" is Juliet's daughter, and "she" is THIRTY YEARS OLD.

Rachel laughed then, and pulled into traffic.

Juliet remarked, faux-sadly, "Took sixteen stitches to close. He still has a scar."

"You're doing this on purpose," Rachel muttered. "Remind me again why I missed you so much while you were gone."

Then brunch, which was also totally normal, although less normal than driving in the car, because while driving, Rachel didn't actually have to look at her sister. She has to keep asking, "How old are you again?" The answer is 67. Sixty-seven. SIXTY FUCKING SEVEN. It's all very confusing. Juliet said, "Just add thirty to how old you think I'm supposed to be. It's not that confusing."

OK, so maybe "confusing" isn't the right word, but supremely fucking weird. In the car, not so weird, 'cause it was kind of like old times, and without looking at her, you could forget that Juliet was 37 + 30 years old. Actually, looking right at her at brunch, you probably'd never guess she was 67. Sixty, maybe. Fifty-five, even. Not bad. Except her hands. She kinda has old lady hands. Supremely. Fucking. Weird.

And here's something weird, but also kind of awesome: Juliet had to go to the bathroom toward then end of brunch, and when the waiter came by, he asked Rachel, "Does your mother want another mimosa?" Rachel's first thought? _My mother's been dead for more than eight years, so NO, NO, I doubt she wants or needs a mimosa_. . . and then OH! OH! Oh, holy shit, that's HILARIOUS. She told the waiter, "No thanks. Mom gets kind of loopy after one mimosa. Age, you know."

She was still laughing when Juliet got back to the table. "What's so funny?," she asked. Rachel told her, then Juliet dropped this bomb: "I'm older than Mom would be." And . . . fuuuuuuuck. That's right. That's . . .God, that's NOT NORMAL.

So, here they stand, waiting for Juliet's son at the Miami airport arrival lounge. Just like any normal old (_old_, heh) sisters who haven't seen each other in seven or thirty seven years, due to the extenuating circumstances that one of them traveled through time. You know, normal stuff.

Rachel watches the folks streaming out of the terminal, and has to keep reminding herself that she's not looking for an unaccompanied minor. So, she can ignore that knock-kneed, monkey backpack-wearing little guy being escorted by the airline employee, and she can ignore the tall, gawky teenager with a small bloom of acne and a nose too big for the rest of his face.

Juliet starts to bounce on her tippy toes slightly, and excitedly, but subtly, wave her hand up by her face. Rachel looks. Well. This must be him. He's half a head taller than anyone else coming out of the terminal, and he's blonde, wearing black plastic glasses, nice-fitting jeans, pulling a little carryon roller bag. His hand looks huge wrapped around the bag handle, and JESUS. JESUS. Is it weird that she thinks her nephew is totally hot? That's weird, right? It is weird. But probably not as weird as the fact that her little sister is 37 + 30 years old.

Juliet dashes the last few steps to hug him, and she starts smoothing down the collar on his golf shirt, and patting him on the chest, asking "Did you sleep on the plane?" and "Were you comfortable?" and "Do you need anything to eat?" and "Do you need to stop in the restroom?" She's patting him on the cheek and then the side of the upper arm.

As much as Rachel has to keep reminding herself that Juliet's children are adults, she thinks maybe Juliet needs the same reminder. And even though she still thinks the guy is hot, all this clucking and mother henning Juliet is doing brings it all home. This guy, he is Juliet's little boy. He's huge and handsome and looks somewhat chagrined at all the attention his mother is paying him, but once upon a time, he must have slept on her shoulder and sat in her lap, and, Jesus, spent nine months inside of her. And now he is a grown up. A full-fledged adult who travels cross country and holds a job and seems to take Juliet's mothering in good humor.

Rachel isn't really sure of her place. Is she supposed to go up and introduce herself to him? Just stand here while Juliet finishes making sure he's wiped his mouth and gotten enough sleep and eaten his vegetables and turned off the light when it's bedtime?

Jimmy (that's his name, and it's so boyish it makes it doubly difficult to remember that he's a grown-up) pushes Juliet away. "You gonna introduce me to your sister?"

Juliet holds onto his wrist and guides him the five feet to where Rachel is standing. Juliet opens her mouth to speak, but Rachel can see her getting teary and emotional. "Hey," Jimmy comes to the rescue. "I'm Jimmy LaFleur. It's nice to meet you." He sticks out his hand, and Rachel grasps it, her hand immediately disappearing in his huge grip. "Weird," Jimmy says. "Weird to meet you, but nice."

He smiles at her with giant dimples, and she wonders if he ever uses them to get girls, or at least stun them into submission. He looks a little like his father when he smiles like that, and she's reminded that as handsome and debonair as she thinks James is now, in those pictures from the 70s he was out-and-out hot. And how meek little heart-stomped Juliet went and got some of that, well . . . well, good for her.

Back at the car, Jimmy and Juliet argue a little about who is going to sit in the front seat. His height, her age, no you, no you, I insist. _**I**_ insist. Yada yada yada yada. Rachel says, "For crying out loud. I'll sit in the back. Jesus, you two."

Juliet says, "Trust me, you don't want either of us driving."

Jimmy wins the argument, and is sitting in the back, his knees jacked up to his chest, wedged in next to Julian's empty booster, and the juxtaposition . . . well . . . Rachel's mentioned this whole thing is weird, hasn't she?

They get back, and Rachel watches closely as Jimmy says hello to his dad and sister. She should just accept this for what it clearly is – aside from the time-traveling deal, a very nice, normal, obviously close family. But she keeps looking for cracks in the story. Because . . .well, _wouldn't you?_

Jimmy and Julian hit it off big-time, and Jimmy helps him with the Star Wars Lego set Juliet brought yesterday. Then Rachel sends Julian over to Molly's for the afternoon, because she wants to show off more pictures and Julietabilia that will only confuse J.

They spend the afternoon showing Jimmy pictures and yearbooks. Jimmy's dad and sister have earmarked many of the best (aka most-embarrassing), and the three of them good-naturedly tease Juliet about braces, bad hair, dubious fashion choices.

"It was the Eighties, OK? Give me a break," Juliet defends herself.

"Yeah, Mom," says Rachel. "I remember the Eighties." More head shaking and disbelief all around.

A Christmas picture from 1979. Rachel and Juliet share a sad look. The Christmas their parents knew their marriage was kaput. In the picture, Rachel and Juliet, totally clueless, standing at the tree. Juliet, barely eight, holding up her new Shrinky Dinks kit, young face full of excitement.

Jimmy whistles. "This is so bizarre." He holds up the picture. "You know, I was born like six weeks after this."

"Totally cutting into my Shrinky Dink time," Juliet says, elbowing him in the ribs.

And . . .when Rachel can finally find it in the attic . . . Juliet's wedding video. Juliet is adamant that it not be shown, but Jimmy and Rachel are as eager as she is reluctant. James, Rachel can tell, is curious, but uneasy. She holds up the VHS tape, shakes it in her hand. She knew she kept the VCR hooked up for a reason.

"Come on, Mom. Live a little," Rachel says.

"I've lived a lot, thank you very much."

Their time is up, though, as Molly comes through the front door with Julian. The nuptials of Miss Juliet Carlson and Dr. Edmund Burke will have to wait until after bedtime at least.

Jimmy glances at his watch. "Actually, I gotta run," he says. "I'm meeting someone for drinks."

"A _date?_ You have a date?" His sister sputters at him. "You met someone on the plane?" Has she looked at her brother? How difficult is it to believe someone who looks like him could meet someone on a flight? Rachel's lucky she never met him on a flight, because ewwwwwwwwww. EW.

"Not a date. Just meeting someone for drinks, and no, it's, uh … someone I knew from before. I called her when I knew I was coming out here, so I'm meeting her for drinks at the hotel bar."

"Hotel?" James asks. "We got a suite, son, but you do realize all of us are stayin' in there, doncha?"

"It's not gonna be like that, Dad."

"Uh huh."

Rachel has to laugh at James' clearly skeptical response.

Juliet ignores all the drama to say, "Jimmy, do me a favor. Whoever she is, don't tell her why you're here, OK? I don't know how to tell people this. I'm not sure if we should."

"Mom," he says, very serious. "You don't gotta worry about that. If I told her the truth, she'd probably think I was crazy."

"She would," Rachel agrees, remembering what she thought of her niece only about twenty four hours ago.

"So, I'll keep all the time travel on the down-low, thank you very much. Unless there's a chance you screwed her, Dad. Did you know a La .. ."

"Little ears, Jimmy," Rachel's niece hisses, gesturing at Julian, who looks very curious about all that.

The LaFleurs (is that what she's supposed to call them? It's technically their name, right?) leave for the evening after dinner. Juliet can't stay in the guest room under the stairs, because the bed isn't too comfortable and it made her hip hurt (she's old, but is she old enough to break a hip? JESUS NOT NORMAL), but they return Sunday for breakfast, and more catching up. Rachel and Jimmy are leaving this afternoon, because they need to get back to their jobs. They are grown-ups. They are grown-ups, and Juliet is probably old enough to break a hip. Rachel assumes that she'll wake up from this dream any minute.

Before they leave, Rachel needs to mark all their birthdays in her calendar. Birthdays are important, and now she can celebrate Juliet's again. And her brother-in-law's, and nephew's, and niece's. She marks down James' birthday. Asks Jimmy.

"February 14, 1980."

NINETEEN EIGHTY. GOD DAMN. Also? "You were born on Valentine's Day?" Jimmy nods. Rachel laughs. "Oh, she must've loved that," gesturing at Juliet. Or maybe it was good. Maybe something good finally happened on that blighted day.

Jimmy shrugs. "I was two weeks early. I was due February 28. If I was a little late, I could've been a Leap Day baby. Then, I'd only be seven years old." Then he'd be closer to Julian's age. WEIRD.

"You?" Rachel turns to Rachel.

"April 8, 1978."

"She was _not_ early," Juliet notes.

"Thanks for the editorializing, Mom," Rachel says.

"You weren't there. You didn't hafta deal with it," grumbles James.

"Uh, yeah, Dad. I kinda was there." James waves her off.

Rachel closes up her calendar, smiling. All these new celebrations. "Oh, wait!" she says, remembering. "Anniversary?"

"December 19," Juliet says.

"1975? '76?" So freaking weird. Her sister got married during the Bicentennial year. That's hilarious.

"1977," Juliet says.

"OK." Rachel marks it down in her calendar. "1977. That's hilarious. Wait." She flips to the April page for Rachel's birthday. "Did you say . . ."

"Here we go," James snorts.

She flips back to December. "You knocked up my sister before you married her?"

He looks smug. "Three times, actually."

"That. . . that . . . that doesn't even . . . _what_?"

Juliet rolls her eyes, shakes her head. "He's trying to be funny. Ignore him."

Her niece claps her hands and laughs. "They aren't married! I've been dying to tell you! It's hilarious! They aren't married!"

"In 1977 we were six and eight," Juliet explains. "We couldn't get a marriage license without parental permission, and, well . . . what do you think Mom and Dad would've said about that?"

Rachel laughs. "You could've really messed with their heads." She thinks for a second. "But you're of-age now. Even the younger versions of you."

"The younger versions of us are both legally dead," James notes.

Rachel gets a chill. Juliet isn't dead. She's right here. Right here on the couch with her family. Right here. Rachel reaches out to squeeze her hand. Juliet squeezes back. She's thinking the same thing. So they haven't lost that - their ability to communicate without actually talking.

* * *

Rachel sits alone on her back patio, staring at the night sky.

The kids left this afternoon. Is Rachel supposed to call them that? "The kids"? Juliet and James call them that, but they're closer to Rachel's age than Juliet and James are. And how did Juliet live thirty-four years like this? Has she always had to stop to think and remember what the year is? How old she is? Whether she should use past tense about events that are going to happen in the future?

This is all going to take some figuring out. But Rachel thinks she_ will_ get it figured out. The "kids" are pretty great, smart and fun, with wicked senses of humor, subtle (in Jimmy's case) or not-so-subtle (in Rachel's). They have good jobs they seem to like (hence, their return cross country trip). Rachel seems happily married, and Jimmy seems psyched (if silent) about his successful hotel bar drink outing. They seem completely at ease with their money (yes, hotel suite at the Four Seasons; yes, first class tickets home; yes, Jimmy wears a Rolex), but they aren't stuck-up assholes like most rich people Rachel's known (looking at you, Edmund Burke, fucker).

Speaking of Juliet's choice in men . . .James. James. Huh. Rachel can't quite figure out where she stands on the issue of James. She's inclined to distrust him, because his past is, quite simply, distrustful. Besides, he does sound, as advertised, like an uneducated hick. Plus, Juliet has horrid taste in men, so her track record doesn't bode well on this front. On the other hand, the two of them finish each other's sentences, share secret silent conversations with their eyes, make each other laugh, seem genuinely in love. But that's what con men do . . . make you believe what's not really true. On the other hand . . . Jimmy and Rachel. You can't fake raising two people like that. On the other hand . . .

On the other hand, Rachel isn't an octopus, and is running out of other hands.

It's late Sunday night (or early Monday morning?), and they're up asleep in Rachels' bedroom. She'll take under the stairs tonight, just so she could get more time with Juliet. She's leaving tomorrow, but they're already planning to fly Rachel and Julian out to LA. On the other hand, on the other hand, on the other hand, maybe she doesn't need to figure out where she stands on the James Issue. Not yet at least. There's just something about him that stirs up some emotion she can't name. Something that makes her uneasy.

She hears the sliding glass door open behind her, hoping maybe it's Juliet, disappointed to see it's James.

"Couldn't sleep," he explains. "Saw ya out here, soooo . . ."

She removes her feet from the lawn chair they were resting on, and kicks the chair in his direction without actually looking at him. _You are welcome to sit and join me, but I'm still not so sure about you, so don't think we're going to sit out here and bond or anything._

"What's keeping you up?" she asks.

"Your sister snores like a damn freight train."

"Really?"

"Naw," he laughs, then offers, "Not tonight, but yeah, when she's got a cold or somethin', I guess then ya better be wearin' earplugs if you wanna sleep anywhere near."

And there it is: the emotion she can't name. It's got a name. Oh hell yeah, it's got a name. It's jealousy. While she's spent the last seven years mourning her sister, missing her acutely, _he's_ been the one to take care of her when she's been sick. _He's_ the one who gets to know she snores when she's congested. _He's_ the one she took to prenatal doctor visits. _He's_ the one who gave her presents on her birthday. _He's_ the one who wakes up and has breakfast with her in the morning.

It's all so very clear. She's not distrustful of James. She's not wary of him or contemptuous. No. What she is is jealous.

"You know, there been a lotta times, a lot, I been jealous of ya."

She looks at him sharply. Can he read minds?

"What do you mean?" How could _he_ be jealous of _her_?

"Dunno. Just, I guess, well, for one thing, I always wanted her to be happy, you know? Give her the moon and stars if I could. But what she wanted more'n anything was to see you again, and that's just not somethin' I could give. Fact, I'm a big part of the reason she gave up on seein' you again. And you, you . . . you're like the long-lost sister who can do no wrong. You don't put your shoes up on the couch. You don't leave whiskers in the sink. You don't leave your work radio on and keep it on the bedside table. Ya don't do nothin' wrong, because you ain't around to do nothin' wrong, and that pissed me off."

She laughs. "At least you got to be around to do that stuff. I don't see how you can be jealous of me. You got to be with her. You got to know what happened to her. You got to take care of her."

_I took care of her from the time Dad left, and all that time doesn't equal what you've gotten._

He doesn't respond, and she figures his silence is agreement. Then he says, "Back in 1981 . . ." he trails off, shakes his head, and starts again with, "Back in there, earlier today. The joke about us not being married? Probably confused you because I said three times."

She realizes exactly what he's referring to. It confused her at the time, but then there was the whole question of them not being married, and she meant to ask, and didn't, and then thought maybe he mis-spoke, or . . . OK. She wonders where this is heading, and why he's saying it now.

"Yeah, back in 1981, it was. She had a miscarriage, and to this day, what I remember most is how much she was askin' for you. God Damn, I was so fuckin' jealous. And then I felt guilty for feelin' jealous, and I already felt guilty enough anyway, and powerless 'cause I couldn't get you for her. Fuck. I just want you to know that you were always, always with her, and just because we took so long to make it back to ya doesn't mean it's 'cause she didn't want to. You were the one thing she wanted most in the world, and I couldn't get it for her."

"Thank you," Rachel says. "Thank you." Because what else is there to say? Thank you for taking good care of her? Thank you for appreciating her? Thank you for loving her? What? How to say it accurately? "I don't know. Looks like you gave her a lot," she says. "She seems really happy, and Rachel and Jimmy are great. Really. Thank you," she says again.

He shrugs. He says, "I'm glad Rachel made us come out here. We were scared to. Juliet was scared about bein' so old, about how weird it all is, about lots of stuff, but I'm glad we came. She is, too."

"It is weird," Rachel says. "Supremely fucking weird, but I'm so glad you came. It was the right thing to do."

"Uh huh," he says, absentmindedly. He looks kind of dazed.

"James?"

No response.

"James?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"You kind of fazed out for a little bit there."

"Sorry," he says. "Sorry. I, uh . . . uh . .. I need to . . ." he fishes his cell phone from his pocket, and begins dialing. What the hell is going on?

He speaks into the phone. "Hey Jimmy, it's Dad. I guess maybe you're still on your way home, but I wanted to leave this message while I got the balls to do it. Call me tomorrow. Call me and give me Kate's number. There's something I gotta do, and I need her help with it. Love you, son. Bye."

He hangs up.

"Care to tell me what that was all about?" she asks.

"You just gave me the courage to do somethin' I shoulda done a long time ago."


	48. Days of Their Lives, 6

_**June 20, 1979**_

When all is said and done, quitting is so simple. She walks in, marches back to DeGroot's office, quits. He gives some spiel about the work of the Dharma Initiative, change the world, blah blah blah. She listens respectfully, still quits. That's it. All done. So easy. _Ain't nothin' but a thing,_ says the James voice that runs in her head sometimes.

It's a little more difficult saying goodbye to Alicia and Eleanor. She tells them she's staying for her family, and Eleanor says, "I thought you always said things were complicated with your family."

Boy howdy, got that right, but, "I mean James and Rachel," and they're about the least complicated thing she's ever had.

A few more goodbye hugs for her friends, and then she says, "Listen, guys, I hope you find what you're looking for, but, you know, if a few years go by, and, I don't know . . . I just . . . I don't think you all should stick around with the D.I. forever, you know? Give it a few years, then come back home."

They nod at her, and Alicia laughs.

"Please," Juliet says. "I'm serious. I just don't think it's healthy to stay there forever."

"OK, Mom," says Eleanor.

Please. _Please, trust me, I'm from the future._

That night, she turns out her bedside lamp early. She turns on her side, trying to sleep. She's worried about her friends and can't concentrate on her book. It doesn't help that she's already read _The World According to Garp,_ seen the movie even, but it won't come out for a few years at least. Do these people even know about Robin Williams yet? Yes, yes, _Mork and Mindy_, that's right. Na-Nu Na-Nu. Stupid, crazy life.

James keeps reading, or she thinks he is, but, of course, he can tell she's agitated, because he can pretty much tell anything about her, and it's kind of a pain in the ass sometimes, when it's not so endearing. He turns to her, looking over the top of his glasses, and says, "I hope you ain't gonna hold it against him?"

_Huh? _She was actually trying to think of _Mork and Mindy_ instead of Alicia and Eleanor, so she's got a bit of Robin Williams on the brain, and she . .. what? WHAT? "Hold _what_ against _who_?"

"Not goin' back. I hope you don't hold it against the baby, resent him for it."

She ignores the presumption this is going to be a boy. She considers his statement, and realizes how completely wrong it is. "I think I'm grateful, not resentful. I don't know what took me so long to quit. I'm grateful." She lays a hand over her stomach. _Thank you_, she wants to say. _Thank you. _

James puts his hand on top of hers. "Dudn't seem real," he muses.

What doesn't? 1979? _Mork and Mindy_? Quitting the Dharma Initiative (finally)? The baby? "Oh, it's real all right," she says. Whatever it is, it's real.

_**June 29, 1979**_

The first week was kind of cool. Days James had shifts were the same as always. Days he didn't, she didn't have to go in and type. Pretty nice. Very nice. Relaxing. Family togetherness. Nice.

Boring.

No. Not boring. Taking care of her family – important. Important, not boring.

Except the second week begins, and, yeah, yeah, this is kind of boring. Not that typing was exactly the most stimulating thing she's ever done . . . far from it, but still, it was a means to an end. It was some kind of bizarre fallback, something to go off and do. She thinks of her mother's master's degree in library science. How she quit to stay home and raise her girls. How she couldn't get a job after the divorce. How she struggled to make ends meet.

How Juliet vowed to never make the same mistake.

And of all the choices (mistakes?) she's made in her life: going out with the dashing, older professor . . . actually thinking he was dashing (what the hell?) . . . drinking the orange juice . . . believing They could cure Rachel's cancer . . . shacking up with a convicted felon and half-reformed con man . . . _This _is the one mistake she can't stomach? What is _wrong_ with her? Never mind, don't answer that.

It's another night of lying in bed pretending to read _Garp_. A book about a child without a father. Hey, Julian, how's that working out for you? (_Thank you, God, for giving my children such a wonderful father_.) She turns a page. How long until she can read a book for the first time again? A decade? Two? She really didn't have a lot of time for pleasure reading in med school. Maybe then she can read new stuff. Maybe. Her kids will teenagers by then. This is the weirdest life ever.

"What's up, Gilbert Grape?" James interrupts her thoughts.

"Huh?"

"I mean, what's eatin' ya?"

She sighs. Of course he can tell something's bothering her. _Staying home and being your wife and mother of your kids isn't enough for me. How 'bout that? _"Don't take this the wrong way," she starts.

He snorts. "Great. Great. 'Don't take this the wrong way.' Second cousin to 'No offense, but." Sister to 'With all due respect.' All right. Lemme have it."

"I'm bored."

He grins. "Say no more." He reaches out to her shoulders, and he's using subtle pressure to maneuver her, and . . .

Jesus. _Jesus._ Is he kidding? Does he really think that's what she meant? How can he be so clueless sometimes? She fights the urge to slap him. Did he or did he not hover outside the bathroom door this morning while she puked? Yes, he did, because she distinctly remembers being charmed by his concern. And did he or did he not hover outside the bathroom door again this afternoon? Yes, he did, because she distinctly remembers being irritated by his hovering.

"_Really?_" she protests, pushing him away. "You really want to test my gag reflex? Are you _insane_?"

"No, I . . . I . . . sorry, I didn't . . . I thought you meant . . ."

"I _know _what you thought. I forget sometimes you're like two steps removed from male gigolo."

"You love it."

"I tolerate it."

He makes a big show of ducking his head, looking up at her through his bangs with bashful eyes. "I apologize for bein' a crude lout. Now please continue. I'm just dyin' to know what I ain't supposed to take the wrong way."

She sighs, lets it go. "I don't want to stay home full-time. I . . . think it will start to bore me. It's _already_ started to bore me. But it's 1979, and I . . ." _I'm stuck. Stuck. _She can't bring herself to say it, though. Because she doesn't feel stuck with him. Well, she _is_ stuck with him, but in a good way, but that's not how he'll take it if she says it, and . .. ARGH! She's stuck.

"Say no more," he grins. He holds an index finger to her lips. "Hold that thought." He gets out of bed, and tiptoes out of the bedroom, smiling again as he goes.

What the hell?

* * *

How's this for perfect timing? He's been wondering how long it's gonna take her to come to this conclusion. She actually lasted a few days longer than he expected. Even so, he's just been waiting. She's gotta think it's her idea, you know. But today? Perfect timing.

He bet the Seattle Supersonics in the NBA playoffs, and waddaya know? They won. How 'bout that? He's had the cash stashed over at Miles' place for a few weeks. He picked it up this afternoon and was supposed to go drop it off with that sleazeball broker, dump it into Microsoft. But Jules was feelin' under the weather, and he figured he'd stay home and take care of baby girl. No way was he taking his precious girl in with him to deal with that douchebag (turns out when you want a broker who'll also gin up an SSN, you got very few options). He's got the money hid in a briefcase in the back of the hall closet (said an extra prayer that the pipe doesn't break again). Perfect.

He carts it back to the bedroom, and he just can't help himself. He loosens the snaps. He walks into the bedroom, gives the briefcase the smallest of shakes. WHOOOPS! The case pops open, fat wads of cash spilling onto the bed.

She stares from the cash, to him, back to the cash, back up at him.

"Uhm. You weren't exactly supposed to see that," he says, laughing internally.

"You just dropped a boatload of cash onto our bed. You think I'm gonna look away?"

"Sorry. Inside joke . . . briefcase con," he mumbles. She just stares, no snappy remark, or laugh, or question about the money. Just one of them stares she does. All right, fine. Time to come clean. "My first paycheck, I put most of it down on the Cowboys to win the Super Bowl. Course, they did, and I got the paycheck back in the bank 'fore you even realized it was gone. Took the winnings and dumped them into Microsoft. I been doin' that off'n on ever since. This here's from the NBA finals."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"'Cause you had that whole thing about wantin' to go back, and I didn't never intend to, but I didn't wanna start a fight or nothin'. Just figured what you didn't know wouldn't hurt ya. Now, here's the thing. I figure Microsoft's a sure thing. We don't gotta do nothin' else, and that's gonna be a nice pile o' cash in a bit. I figure she. . ." he inclines his head in the direction of Rachel's room. "Well, both of 'em, actually," he smiles toward her stomach. . . "they ain't gonna have to worry 'bout payin' for college. We don't gotta do nothin' else. But . . . but, if there was someone who, I dunno, say, loved puzzles, figurin' shit out, and, oh I dunno, had kinda a thing for sittin' around libraries doin' research, and just so happened to have nothin' else to do. . . Well, maybe that person could try to figure out shit other than Microsoft. Study up on shit that's comin' down the pike, invest in it. You know anyone who fits the bill?"

Her eyes are still roaming over all the cash. She sounds kind of dazed, "I think I just might."

He bends down to kiss her, hard. What a fuckin' relief to have that all told. Jesus, he hated keeping it from her. She'll be an ace at this, he knows it. They're gonna be fabulously wealthy one day.

_**September 22, 1979**_

Another typical day in the LaFleur apartment. Rachel up before dawn, James whispering over to Juliet that he'd take care of it. He always gets up with her. Hell, if she'd been aware of this benefit, maybe she would've gotten knocked up sooner.

They spent the day driving around neighborhoods. Their real estate agent is taking them to a few houses on Monday. This secret stash of cash equals a down payment. Juliet has a quick stress-out over using up so much of their savings, but James points out that the Microsoft stuff is a no-brainer. Plus the bets. It'll all work out.

Miles invited himself over for dinner. His complaint is he's hardly hung out with them in "forever." His word - "forever." Maybe it's been a few weeks, maybe a month. They haven't told him about the baby yet. Superstitious enough to wait till the second trimester, and even when they reached that milestone, now waiting (hopefully a few more days? Soon, please) for the amnio results. Besides, it's a whole heck of a lot of fun having this secret. Which is bizarre, when you think about it. Their whole life is a secret.

Anyway, of late, they've just kind of avoided Miles. James sees him at work anyway.

"If he comes over, we're gonna have to tell him," she says, expecting full agreement.

Instead James says, "Ah, it ain't that obvious. Least while you got your clothes on." He leers at her. She's reminded how appreciative he is of her new body, how much she likes that, how good his forearms look right now. She stares back at him. He stares back, his eyes wandering to her lips, then south, then back up to the eyes. He quickly darts his eyes to the living room.

He dashes off. Eye sex isn't nearly so hot when one of you has to rush off to save your toddler from climbing on the coffee table. James catches Rachel right before she topples off. He says, "Plus, Miles is clueless about shit like this. Trust me."

And, well, she doesn't have to snap her jeans, and they invented peasant tops for a reason, she supposes. And the reason they were invented? Hiding a pregnancy from a sarcastic Asian-American time-traveling former ghost whisperer/current university security guard.

Well, probably not that _exact_ reason.

The day's winding down, dinner over, Rachel asleep, Juliet playing cards with Miles and James, gossiping about the folks down on campus, contemplating the upcoming World Series. "Pirates, trust me," James says.

Miles clears his throat, rubs his hands over the thighs of his jeans. "So you guys are really staying, right? Last sub leaves tomorrow, you know."

"Yeah, Enos, we're really stayin'."

"OK, just wondering. . . You all aren't . . . like, moving or something?"

Juliet stares at him over the top of her cards. She goes for calm, cuts her eyes over to James. Shit. Did they leave out some of the real estate brochures?

"Like, leaving Ann Arbor?" Miles clarifies. "Warmer climate? I know we've talked about it, and now that Jules is out of Dharma for good . . ."

"You want us to move, Oda Mae?" James asks.

"Well, no, I mean, not yet, our job . . ., I, just . . . just wondered is all."

"We ain't leavin' Ann Arbor any time soon."

"OK." He lays down a card.

"Uno!" Juliet shouts, when she lays down her card.

She's out the next round. Miles gathers the cards to shuffle. James stands up. "Be right back. Gotta see a man about a horse."

When James is out of earshot, Miles leans over to Juliet. "Psssst," he whispers. "Jim isn't . . . sick or anything? He's OK, right?"

"He's just gone to pee, Miles. He's fine."

Miles starts dealing.

"OK. OK. . . you guys aren't splitting up or something, right?"

James is back to hear that. "Shit, doofus, no, we ain't splittin' up. Jesus."

"All right, it's just I . . ." he trails off, snaps his fingers. "Oh! It's about the money isn't it? Juliet's already made us millionaires, hasn't she? I told you we should've let her in on it sooner!"

"What's about the money, Miles? What are you talking about?" Juliet asks.

"Nothing," he mumbles, but he hasn't even finished dealing the next hand when he asks, "You didn't see someone from the past, or, errr, future . . . you know what I mean. Like Locke or someone? Yourselves?"

James has been organizing his hand, but sets the cards down. "What the fuck, Miles? What's with the third degree?"

Mile says, pointing a finger first at James, next at Juliet, "Oh, you two think you're sooooo clever. Think you can hide something from dear old Miles. Think I'm clueless." He taps an index finger on his temple. "I'm a lot smarter than you give me credit for, you know. And what I know is, you're hiding something from me. Oh, you think you can get away with it, but all these . . . _looks_. Oh yeah, shared, stupid looks. I'd have to be blind not to see, so you can go ahead and think I'm clueless, but I'm going to get to the bottom of it . . . just you wait and see."

Juliet has to bite down on her lips to keep from laughing. How very Miles. Intuitive enough to know something's up, but clueless enough to guess that "what's up" is that they saw John Locke.

James crosses his arms across his chest. His face is turning red, and Juliet can see the muscles in his jaw, holding his mouth shut so tight he's probably going to get a headache. He looks like he might explode if he has to keep it in any longer.

Miles snaps his fingers. "Oh, shit! I just figured it out!" Juliet looks over to James and they grin at each other. Took him long enough. "See, you're doing it again!" Miles points out. "It's about that new receptionist, isn't it? Claudia? She likes me, doesn't she? Did she say something to you?"

"Ain't about Claudia," James grits from a still-clenched jaw.

"OK," Miles says, "What about . . "

"Juliet's pregnant!" James blurts/exhales.

Miles's jaw drops. Juliet giggles. They weren't going to tell, but, Jesus, how was it he couldn't guess?

"Whoops!" Miles says.

"On purpose, dipshit," James grumbles.

"Seriously?" Miles turns to Juliet. "Seriously. You are _intentionally_ passing his genes along to a younger generation? Really? See, 'cause I see how he is. I see him all flirty and charming and whatnot. See him with those college girls."

James looks alarmed. He looks over to Juliet, shaking his head rapidly, silently denying said behavior, but who's he kidding? Of course he flirts with college girls. _Of course_ he does – it's his way of getting things done. He flirts with waitresses right in front of her, just to get free appetizers. Of course he flirts with undergrads if he thinks it will make them drop the dime on whoever was responsible for the vandalism at the DKE house.

Miles is still at it. "So, yeah, I see how 'charming' and 'handsome' he is, and I get it. I get that you can have a one-time lapse in judgment," he inclines his head back in the direction of Rachel's room.

James flares his nostrils, shifts his weight forward in his chair. "Watch it, man," he warns.

Miles ignores. "But on purpose? God, Juliet. You aren't nearly as smart as I give you credit for. So when's the blessed event? When's James Jr. gonna be joining us?"

"His name ain't gonna be James Jr."

"Ah ha! But he is a he, then?"

"Yeah, smarty pants. Yeah he is."

The tech at the ultrasound had warned it might be too early to tell, but little fella was _not_ shy when it came to showing off the family jewels.

"So . . . when? When does Jimmy make his big arrival?"

James looks like he could reach across the table and punch Miles. "His name ain't gonna be . . ."

"February 26," Juliet cuts him off. She has no idea why he lets Miles rile him up so. Doesn't he get that Miles is doing it on purpose?

"Ooooh, Jimmy could be a Leap Day baby!" Miles exclaims. James grits his teeth. She looks imploringly at him. _Ignore it. Ignore Miles. He'll stop calling him Jimmy if you ignore it. _

Except Miles asks, "So, I'm guessing it would be inappropriate to give him Jeep gifts?" Yeah, that ignore thing doesn't always work out when it comes to Miles.

She leans forward, glares at him. He gulps. Here's what _always_ works on Miles: this look. "Miles. Have you ever considered that it's inappropriate that you give _her_ Jeep gifts?"

"I . . . no, guess I hadn't," Miles mumbles. He won't stop, though.

_**October 26, 1979**_

First day in their new house. The place is full of boxes, moving paper, and Juliet bitching about not being able to find her hair dryer. To James' best guess, this is probably like your stereotypical day moving into your new house. What the fuck kind of clue does he have? Too young to remember moving into Mama and Daddy's house, then shuffled off from Mawmaw and Papaw to Uncle Doug and back again, juvvie, off on his own, lifetime full of apartments.

So this is just your stupid, pansy-ass, ridiculous, move-in-to-your-first-house white bread, boring suburban day.

And he loves it.

Carole, their realtor, made them take a picture in front of the "SOLD" sign. Carole . . . Carole the over-assumer. Jesus. Lady just about drove them bonkers, but got 'em a good deal, and a quick move-in, so they just had to put up with her assumptions.

Assumed "you'd probably like this house better if it was a different color." It's light yellow, and it's why they looked at it in the first place. Assumed they'd want to "take those bookcases out for more room." When they walked in to see the built-in bookcases, they were pretty much sold. Assumed they'd want to keep the sickly Pepto-Bismol-pink room "for your little girl." Juliet _hates _"over-pinking" Rachel.

Assumed they could use the fourth bedroom for when grandparents visit. Shit. A bridge too far. James took a moment to fantasize asking the Carlsons to come for Thanksgiving. That would be . . . somethin' else is what it would be. Bring their daughters with 'em, and, bingo! Two free babysitters! Jules, though, is gettin' wound up lately about her folks, and how it's one thing that their kids won't never know them, but it's another thing entirely that they'll never see their pictures, never know the truth about them . . . So Over-Assumptive Carole made that grandparents remark, and Juliet said, "Our parents are no longer with us," in that super-creepy Others voice.

Over-Assumptive Carole didn't get it, though, and then stupid lady put her life on the line by breezing over that with "Well, then maybe a room for a third baby, don't you think?" _Oh, damn. _And then! _Oh sweet fucking holy Moses, _Carole went and patted Juliet's tummy. She assumed that's allowed. It is so totally not allowed. James and Rachel, excepted. Miles just about got his hand chopped off the one time he did it. "Do it again, and I chop off your other hand," Juliet Othered at him.

"_Other_?" Miles sputtered. Oh yeah, funny almost-got-my-hand-chopped-off-in-the-jungle inside joke.

But, see, Carole got them an amazing deal on the down payment, and if Juliet chopped off Carole's hand, that deal would probably fall through, so James quickly shifted the conversation back to Carole's husband's stint in Vietnam. Except, shit . . . why didn't James have to go to 'Nam? Carole asked. (Answer: I was just a baby). So, yeah, here's something else Carole assumes: the LaFleurs aren't time travelers.

Who the fuck cares, though, right? They're in the house tonight, and they even humored Carole with that goofy, stand-in-front-of-the-SOLD-sign photo, James grumbling the whole way through. Even though he secretly loved it. His very own house! With his very own wife! And kids! Grumble, grumble, grumble.

When Carole left, James didn't have to pretend he wasn't over the moon about all this. So, he asked Juliet to let him carry her over the threshold. "That's for when you get married, not when you buy a house," she argued. He shrugged. She tried a new tack. "What about your knee?"

"Jesus, sweetheart, you ain't that heavy."

So he scooped her up, right arm under her knees, left supporting her back, her head on his shoulder, arms around his neck, and she started to laugh, getting into the spirit. Over the threshold they go, and Rachel, sitting amidst a sea of crinkly packing paper in the foyer laughed and laughed. So James did it again, 'cause he'll do anything to make his girls laugh. Back and over the threshold about five times, Juliet's legs dangling over his right arm. James starting to scooch his hand over to feel up her ass. Over and over. Rachel laughing all along, until, yeah, yeah, his knee did start to ache a bit.

Still aching now, the end of a very, very long day, and where the fuck are the Tylenols? "You seen the Tylenol?" he grumbles, except Juliet is still bitching about no hair dryer.

Fuck it. "Let's just go to bed," he says.

"I'm not going to bed with damp hair."

"So it gets all curly and shit. Think I ain't seen that?"

"I don't like to sleep with it damp. It can start to mold the pillows, did you know that?"

"See, I wasn't plannin' on goin' to sleep first thing, so . . ."

But, shit, when it is time to go to sleep? When they finish appropriately celebrating their first night in their new bedroom? Hell, he's drifiting off in almost no time flat. Jules gets up 'cause she thinks she figured out where the damn hair dryer is, and sure 'nuff, he starts to hear that thing blowin' hot air and white noise, and he starts dreaming about loads and loads of boxes back and forth.

She's back in a jiff, her hair dry, wearing his bright-red Red Wings t-shirt. He wakes briefly as she snuggles in next to him. He rolls over to spoon her, mumbles, "Welcome home, baby," starts to drift off again. Here's one thing he don't like about her bein' pregnant: he's gotta always be the big spoon, and, see, he likes bein' the little spoon, because, well, see, gee whiz, officer, the thing is, _ahem,_ he likes to feel her tits on his back, OK? OhhhhhhKaaaaaay? Fine, he admits it, and that's probably a sleazy thing to think about your wife and mother of your kid . . . _kids_, but fuck, it's the truth. And also? Double edged sword? Her tits are, God Damn, super-amazing right now, and here he is, havin' to big spoon her, and . . . all this train of thought does is . . .

"It has been a _very_ long day, James." Yeah, she notices. How can she not? He's right up against her.

"Just ignore that. Gotta mind of its own sometimes," he mumbles, because it has been a long day, and he is fucking exhausted, and somehow he's drifting off to sleep even though he's still completely aroused. But instead of a sex dream, he's back to half dreaming/half remembering packing and moving all those boxes with Miles. There's a mental cold shower if he ever had one. All those boxes, back and forth. And, damn his shoulder is starting to ache. Just the one shoulder, though, and his mind's trying to wake him up because maybe he just dreamed/remembered where the Tylenol is. Wait. . . in that one box . . .

But no, his mind is now dreaming/remembering back and forth over the threshold. Juliet's head on his shoulder. So that's why it hurts so much? Rachel laughing from her sea of moving paper. Rachel clapping her hands, Juliet laughing, holding on to his neck.

And back again over the threshold. Not laughing this time. Juliet wearing his Red Wings t-shirt. And Rachel's gone.

Here they go over the threshold again. She seems lighter. Wait . . . she's not pregnant anymore. What happened? Is something wrong? He's getting alarmed but . . .

Back again over the threshold. The house is really dark and earthy-smelling, and where did Rachel go? And why isn't Juliet holding on to his neck anymore?

And again. Juliet getting so freaking heavy, she's not clinging to him anymore, not helping, and her legs are dangling limp over his right arm. Rachel's still gone, but Kate, of all people, stands on their front porch, looking all droopy and sad.

Another time. Juliet's stiff. That's what she is. Stiff. Stiff and heavy and cold, and her head wobbles and bumps against his shoulder 'cause she got no control of it. Still no Rachel in the foyer. Actually, no foyer at all. And there is Miles in his Dharma jumpsuit, staring in disbelief. And Jin. Hey, Jin-Bo! Long time, no see! And there . . . that sonofabitch motherfuckin' shit stain, Saint Jackass himself, why the fuck is James so fucking mad at him? So fucking mad. God damn you, god damn you. _YOU DID THIS_.

* * *

Juliet's having a pleasant, if banal dream. Hanging out with James in, she guesses, the break room down at security HQ. Kissing. That's nice. Mmmmmmmm. Something hard and solid pressed to her thigh. No, not a sex dream. It's a cell phone in her lab coat pocket. One of those dreams where they live when they're supposed to. Always nice. Her brain pings with things she'd like to Google while she's got the chance. Gather her info and get back to 1979.

James is kissing her passionately, and her dreaming brain is thinking of Google? Lame. But his kissing turns rough. More than rough – violent. He's shaking her and pushing her, grabbing her too hard and shouting, "You did this! You did this!" over and over.

And she's awake. He's got her upper left arm held in a vice grip, and it _hurts_. He's hurting her. One of his dreams. He lets go, but rolls on top of her. "I had a life!" he roars at her, and she's scared.

"James," she tries her calm voice, trying to cut through his haze. He growls at her, and not in the way that can get her to remove her shirt in an eyeblink.

He's pushing her shoulders into the mattress. "I had a life. You did this," growled low and angry, and somehow scarier than when he was shouting it.

She shouts, "James!" She works a hand free, and slaps him, hard, across the face. He lets her go as he slowly wakes up, his eyes frantic and roaming over the room. His breath heavy and ragged, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead and upper lip.

She sits up right away, pushing him off. His eyes stop roaming, settle on her, staring. He gulps. He wipes his forehead, but the sweat is at his temples now.

"Hey, hey, hey," she soothes. She puts her hands to his neck, and can feel his pulse hammering there. She runs her thumbs along his jawline. "It was just a dream, baby. It's OK. You're awake now. It's OK."

His breath evens out. He reaches his hands up to remove hers from his neck. His touch is firm, but gentle now. He lets go of her hands, then touches her head, just laying his hands there like a priest giving a blessing. Then to her shoulders, firm pressure, then moving on to her upper arms. He slides his hands down her arms. Moves his hands to her belly, his eyes following now. His hands and eyes linger for a bit there, move on to her thighs, her knees, back to the thighs, belly, arms . . . He's snuffling. Is he crying? No, but he's fighting it.

She puts her hands over his, pulls them from her body. "Hey, hey. Shhh. Shhhh. It's OK. First night in a new place, right?" Jesus, it had taken _forever_ to get Rachel to go down. Juliet didn't think James would also have first-night anxiety.

"You're OK?" he asks, finally speaking. So he knows he hurt her when he was dreaming?

"I'm fine. I'm fine."

His hands start roaming all over her again, like he's just trying to make sure. "You're fine," he says and repeats like a mantra. "You're fine. You're OK." Like he'll believe it if he just says it enough. Her upper arm still kind of hurts, and she's not going to be shocked if she finds it bruised tomorrow, but she won't tell him that.

"Jimmy's OK?" It's been an inside joke to call the baby by Miles' stupid name. She's been thinking they need to stop soon, or it's going to stick, but it's good to hear the humor in James' voice.

"Jimmy's fine, too." How bad does he think that impromptu sleeping wrestling match was?

"OK, good," he exhales. She pulls him to her, and he rests his head on her chest. He says, "If somethin' ever happened to you, I . . ."

"Shhhh. Shhhh," she whispers to him, smoothing the hair on his temples, holding him against her, rubbing his head, and gently shushing, just like she did earlier tonight to get Rachel to sleep.

These awful awful dreams about his parents. She says a prayer that her children's nightmares come from nothing worse than watching scary movies.


	49. Choices

**Just to prevent any initial confusion, this chapter starts BEFORE the events in Chapter 1. Well, I guess technically, the whole thing takes place before the events in Chapter 1. The first part, pretty close to the events in ch1. The second bit, decades before.**

* * *

Kate sits in silence, peering through her windshield. Just right up there. One flight up. The light's still on. All she's got to do is go up there and spill the beans. A loud rumble of jetwash startles her, and she's reminded again how close she is to the airport. Jack left the flight number on her voicemail. All she has to do is walk up that flight of steps. All she has to do is leave Aaron behind. All she has to do is break her heart (again).

She thinks of dream (ghost?) Claire in Aaron's room. Of fake (ghost?) Claire in the supermarket. What. . . what is she supposed to do? There's no way Claire's alive, right? Kate's heart's still pounding, and it's been at least two hours since she "lost" Aaron.

Cassidy's words still ringing in her ears: "Sawyer broke your heart." Everything always Sawyer with her. Asking if Aaron was his, always turning these conversations back to the man who broke her heart. And Kate's heart? God, who knows? Jack always acted so magnanimous, like he didn't hold her past over her. He didn't . . . not really, but he also never seemed to let her forget that he wasn't doing it. If Jack loved her _despite_ her past, Sawyer probably loved her _because _of it. And she loved him for that, she supposes. Hated him, too. She wanted to be better than her past; he didn't want to be better than his. "Tiger don't change its stripes."

But she did love him, she thinks, although it's easy to think that when someone jumps off a helicopter for you. Did she love him? Does it even matter? He's dead, too, right? Just like Claire.

Besides, at least Jack tried with Aaron. Actually did a good job before the guilt and the drinking and the drugs. Sawyer? Ha. She tries to imagine him sticking around for even a weekend playing Daddy to _anyone._ She snorts in disgust.

Aaron stirs in the backseat. "Mama?" he mumbles.

"Shhh, baby, go back to sleep," she soothes him. She didn't bring his dump truck night light. He needs it, and whenever he sleeps in a new place, he has to have the dump truck night light, or he'll have nightmares. Does Mrs. Littleton know that? Does she know about his whale? About the silly voice you should use when reading the Man in the Yellow Hat's lines?

She can't do it . . . she can't leave this sleeping boy in the care of a woman he's never met before. What's she supposed to do? Leave him sleeping down the hall only to wake up to a stranger? He doesn't have his toys, his books, anything.

Kate wants to go back – for Jack. She wants him to know she's with him, all the way. Life isn't about what she wants anymore, though . . . is it? Life is about what Aaron needs, and Aaron needs her.

She turns the ignition, and flips on the left-hand blinker, leaving the parking lot, pulling into traffic. _I'm so sorry, Mrs. Littleton, but I need to go._

She thinks (hopes?) this is best for Aaron. Right? She's not sure if she just made the worst or best choice of her whole life.

* * *

Juliet stands in silence, peering through the kitchen window. Just right over there. Across the quad. His lights are all on. All she's got to do is dash through the monsoon and knock on his door.

Do that and ruin everything. Or not. Or . . .why does this have to be so difficult? Day 338 in the Dharma Initiative, and she may just be ruining everything. Or not. Or . . .hasn't it been ruined for a while now?

**FLASHBACK February 1975**

Day 218 in the Dharma Initiative.

"Wanna be my date to the dance, Blondie?"

"I told you, I don't do Valentine's."

"And that's why I'm askin' ya."

"How . . . that doesn't even make sense."

"Look, I'm guessin' the Dharma dudes are gonna start sniffin' around, if they haven't already, askin' you to come with them to the big Cupid-Day shindig, and you, Little Ms. I-Don't-Do-Valentine's, is gonna have to come up with a whole series of lies about why you can't go. Or, you go with me, and you can tell all them yahoos to shove it, you already got a date. Then me 'n you can sit in the corner, get drunk, and make fun of hippies."

"We can sit in the corner, get drunk, and make fun of hippies at the St. Patrick's Day party. You know they'll have one."

"Still don't solve your problem about lying to the Dharma dudes."

"This may come as a surprise, but I don't have a problem lying to the Dharma dudes."

"You're gonna make me take Joyce to the Valentine's dance?"

"I'm not _making _you do anything. If you want to go with Joyce to the dance, then do it. Don't rope me into it."

"Seriously? That . . .," he trails off, looks disappointed, shakes his head at the ground. He looks back up, face set, hardened. She's confused. _What's going on? What just happened? _"Well that's that, then," he wipes his hands together as if dusting them off. "Joyce _is_ a pretty hot little number, don't you think?"

"Hadn't given it much thought."

"Your loss, Blondie."

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

On the night of the big dance, Day 229 in the Dharma Initiative, she's sitting on her front stoop, scraping mud off her boots. James strolls by, mostly clean-shaven, dressed up, trailing a hint of cologne, carrying flowers. He waves a fake, big, over-exaggerated wave in her direction, and she lifts her hand tentatively to wave back.

She's felt weird around him the last week or so. She's felt weird because she should just tell him. She tells him everything, and this whole Valentine's Day thing, she should just explain it. Then he won't take it so personally. What's she supposed to say, though?

_Wanna know my issue with Valentine's? Well, OK, I know you cowered under the bed in abject terror while your parents killed and were killed. And I know you had to huddle up in the very back corner so your own father's blood didn't get on your clothes, but! BUT! Did I ever tell you want happened to MY parents? They got DIVORCED. Yeah. Yeah. Pretty awful, huh?_

She hates herself a little for letting a stupid thing like that make such a huge difference in her life, but when you're nine, you're pretty impressionable. When you're nine and wearing your pink sweater because it's Valentine's Day and you hope Billy Bennett's going to give you a special Valentine, and he doesn't and you go home and . . .

Here come James and Joyce back across the quad. He's a perfect gentleman, and she'd holding his bare forearm as he escorts her. Lucky Joyce. He has very nice forearms. He's murmuring in Joyce's ear, and Joyce is laughing. James looks happy, too. Lucky James. He glances up at Juliet then, and his face gets sad for just a second. Back to happily murmuring in Joyce's ear. Ah, so he's just pretending, then?

She feels suddenly guilty. He's going to have to spend tonight acting like he was born in 1938, like he gets all their references to the things they did in the 50s and 60s. Watching his words, his pop culture references, his jokes very carefully. Pretending the Dharma Initiative is Super Cool and Groovy and he wants to Change! The! World! Pretending to be Jim LaFleur. He'll be miserable, and it's all her fault. She should've gone with him so they could get drunk and make fun of hippies. She should've sucked it up for him. She should get over her own stupid-nine-year-old-self. She can ignore February 14, or choose some other completely different thing to celebrate on that day. Yeah, get right on that.

Here's what she'll do: She'll go over first thing in the morning and explain it all, apologize, and everything will be all better.

She wakes up early, cooks a pan of cinnamon rolls. Doesn't burn them. Leaves a few for Eleanor. Heads over to the guys' cabin.

Jin opens the door. She holds her plate of cinnamon rolls in front of her. Jin grins, opens the door wide, and lets her in.

"These are a peace offering," she declares, setting them on the table. Jin looks confused. His English is so much better lately, she forgets there are some things he doesn't quite get. She clarifies. "I came to apologize to James."

Jin says, "James is not here. He did not sleep here last night."

She blinks a few times, trying to process that. Did she mis-hear? Is it Jin's English? No. Oh!

"Oh. Oh!" she breathes.

She nods, decisively, then feels absolutely ridiculous. Ha! She thought he'd have a better time getting drunk and making fun of hippies with her than . . . than . . . than . . . whatever he spent the night doing with Joyce. Juliet rolls her eyes. She says, "I thought he was mad at me for not going to that stupid dance with him. Guess not. Well, that means more cinnamon rolls for you and Miles."

"OK," Jin says. "You are not mad?"

"No. Why would . . . no, I'm not mad." Yeah, Jin's English still needs work. He's got this whole situation confused.

**FLASHBACK March 1975**

Things just haven't been the same since James took up with Joyce. Not necessarily worse, just different. She misses him. It's probably not appropriate for him to spend so much time with her when he's got a girlfriend, or a . . .whatever Joyce is. "Fuckbuddy," Miles says, making Juliet grimace.

They still have their Thursday Night Dinners, but it's not the same with Joyce in the way. They sit around and pretend they're all exactly who they say they are. Juliet's dad died in the Korean War. So did Jin's! Imagine that! Miles' earliest memory was when the Dodgers moved to LA. Jim missed getting shipped to 'Nam because he got a gunshot wound to the shoulder in a training accident.

"I think the scar is sexy," coos Joyce, leaning on his shoulder, running her fingers under his sleeve.

Juliet feels simultaneously jealous of and sorry for Joyce. Jealous, because, uhm, _yeah,_ the scar is sexy. All of him is. Juliet is sad and lonely and misses . . . well, misses whatever it is Joyce is probably getting. Joyce probably knows the answers to the things Juliet spends too many nights wondering about: how his lips taste. What he'd do if you rubbed your thumbs on those hip knobs you see when he's shirtless and wearing his jeans low. Mmmmmm. Joyce is one lucky woman.

Fantasy is safe, though, and here are the things Juliet knows, but Joyce doesn't: his real name, his real past, the real reason he has a gunshot scar, the real reason he didn't go to Vietnam . . . the fact that he is totally, totally hung up on someone else, and is just passing time with Joyce. Poor Joyce.

Luckily enough, James gets promoted to Head of Security, and gets his very own place. He stops bringing Joyce over for Thursday Night Dinners. Miles, Jin, and Juliet appreciate it. This is their sanctuary, when it's just them, and it was tough with Joyce. They miss James, though. Somehow the three of them don't gel as well without him as their glue. Jin never has much to say, Juliet and Miles start bickering, she goes home early to play cards with Alicia and Eleanor, and she really misses James.

She misses him flirting with her. So sexy. So safe. He flirts with everyone. With Alicia to get more books at the library, with whoever's on duty at the canteen to get extra boxes of cereal, with Juliet when he doesn't want to cook something for Thursday Night Dinner. He's stopped flirting with her, though. No need to, she guesses, now that he isn't coming to Thursday Night Dinners.

At least he's happy. And, apparently still flirting with Alicia and everyone else he wants something from. Just not her. Well, fine.

In late March, she's at Miles and Jin's place. Day 268 in the Dharma Initiative. She's supposed to be trading Jin a box of Dharma Flakes in exchange for his can of Dharma Coffee. Miles and Jin are at the table with a six pack between them, so she joins in. They go through that one and start the next before James storms into the house, slamming the front door behind him, stomping down the hall.

"Did I leave my motherfuckin' bulldog sweatshirt here when I moved?" he bellows at them from the back of the house.

"I'm not your mom," Miles yells back.

James comes into the kitchen then, glowering at them. "If it ain't the goddamn three stooges." He takes two beers off the table without asking, downs one, and turns on his heels, out the front door, slamming it as he goes. Off to his own place.

"What was that all about?" Juliet asks.

"You didn't hear?" Miles says. "He and Joyce had a huge falling out two days ago. She left on the sub this morning. Sayonara, Joyce."

Juliet's first emotion is sadness. How come she didn't hear about this? They used to be best friends. Used to tell each other everything. Until Valentine's. Fuck Valentine's. "What happened, do you think?" she asks.

"Uhm, she figured out he's totally, totally hung up on someone else, hello?" Miles snarks.

Juliet finishes her beer, snorts. "No joke. I could've told her that."

Miles doesn't respond. He stares at her just long enough for it to be slightly uncomfortable. Is he drunk? Finally he says, "Jesus, Juliet, wake up and smell the coffee."

_Huh? What . . . what . . ._

Jin snaps his fingers. "Coffee! Right. I am sorry." He stands up, picks up the white Dharma coffee can. "Here you go." He hands it over.

"Thanks," she mumbles. She takes the coffee and leaves, totally confused. She wishes things could go back to how they used to be.

**FLASHBACK Friday night**

Joyce's departure is more than two months in the past, and James has evened out a good bit. Seems to have forgotten about Joyce completely. Or, at least he's no longer slamming around, calling them names, back to Thursday Night Dinners at his place. Or, since it's been raining and raining and raining, and then again, in case they hadn't gotten the point, raining some more . . . well, they had Thursday Night Dinner on Thursday (funny how that works), Friday Night Dinner tonight. Day 336 in the Dharma Initiative.

All four of them blitzed, Miles giving James shit about Joyce, and his relatively good-natured response another indication that maybe he's over that.

"You tell 'em about Jason and Heather?" Miles asks. James snorts.

"Who are Jason and Heather?" Jin asks.

James shaking his head, he's not going to tell, but apparently Miles knows who they are, and is eager to share. "Jason and Heather LaFleur! They're Jim and Joyce's kids. She had 'em named like, what? That first morning after you spent the night?"

_Hmmmph,_ Juliet thinks. Why does Miles know this? _She's_ supposed to be James' best friend. _She's _supposed to know all this. Still . . . oh, poor, misguided Joyce. And, hurt feelings aside, that's kind of . . . oh, oh, oh, that's hilarious. Oh, Joyce, Joyce, Joyce, Joyce . . .

"Watch it, Blondie, your face may get stuck like that."

She's got her eyes rolled back in her head, partly rolling her eyes at poor Joyce, partly because she's too drunk to roll them back. "Sorry. Just trying to imagine Joyce bringing you home to meet her parents." She giggles.

"Now, that's where you're off-base. Shit, I'd have Mom and Pop Joyce eatin' out of the palm of my hand within an hour. Hell, ain't nothin' but a con. Get the folks to like you. It's Jason and Heather you gotta watch out for. Kids got amazing built-in bullshit detectors. Piece of advice: never try to con a kid. You'll never get away with it."

"Noted," Miles slurs.

And that . . . drunk as they all are . . . that's the answer, huh? Clearer than he's ever said it before. It's why he never met his daughter. He's scared she'll see through him. Juliet stares at him. She thinks she can see through him, and she likes what she sees. Maybe his daughter would too? He's looking back at her now, staring, and she hopes her face shows the compassion and understanding she feels. Except she's drunk. Who knows what her face looks like?

Whooomph. Ow! Miles just passed out on her shoulder. You know what? she's having trouble keeping her eyelids up. "Jason and Heather," she giggle slurs, "So _very_ 70s, James." And she's out too.

She wakes up Saturday morning with her feet in Miles' lap, taking a few minutes to get her bearings. Jin on the floor, James in the big chair. Jesus, they had too much to drink. And it's still raining.

**FLASHBACK last night**

Why the hell not? Saturday Night Dinner tonight. Day 337 in the Dharma Initiative. Cabin fever, Jesus. None of them are drinking as much tonight, but not swearing it off completely. The house is just a touch too warm, the once-soothing white noise of the rain now nothing but an irritant that makes them talk loud, or lean in close to hear.

James has been smiling at her all night. Winked at her a few times, even. God, the air is close in here.

Jin and Miles call it an evening fairly early. Everyone overdid it last night. She sticks around to help James clean up, and . . . and just because it's raining and she's bored and edgy and it's hot in here and just, just because . . .just because he's got his sleeves rolled up to do the dishes and his forearms are really . . . just, _phew,_ and plus, also, he's her friend, and she's going to help him clean up. Yes, that's it.

"Wanna know the real reason Joyce left like a bat outta hell?"

_Are we best friends again? Are we telling each other everything again?_ "Sure."

"I, uh, well, I . . . called her your name."

_Last night when I was drunk I called Miles 'Pierre,' and that didn't go over all that well, but . . . Why would that make her so mad that she'd up and leave on the next sub out?_ "What?"

"It was at a, well, let's just say, rather, uhm, intimate moment."

Juliet blinks and blinks and blinks. And stares at the muscles in his forearms.

"Yeah, see, I'd had a bit to drink, and, shit, just blurted it out. Worse'n that, I's drunk enough to tell the truth, and uhm, well, that. . ." he clears his throat, stops talking.

She leans in to hear better. Damn rain drowning everything out. She stares at him.

He continues, "Well, I told her that I'd pretty much just imagined she was you the whole time we was together."

"Joyce doesn't look anything like me." True, true, true. Even so, the most ridiculous thing she's possibly ever said, but what else is she supposed to say? ME? MEEEEEEEE? That's what Miles meant! James is hung up on _me_? No. No, he's a professional. He knows how to get what he wants. No. He's my friend. My best friend. And, Jesus, those arms. And that smile. Stop smiling at me. Stop it. Stop it.

"Ain't no one looks like you, Blondie." He stops smiling, looks serious, stares at her. She stares back at him. He stares back, his eyes wandering to her lips, then south, then back up to the eyes.

Oh, to hell with it. She closes the gap between them, and attaches her lips to his. They aren't touching anywhere else . . . for the moment. Beer and chocolate frosting. That answers that. His lips taste like beer and chocolate frosting. And his tongue tastes like . . . like him.

And here's another thing she's been wondering lying in bed at night . . . she reaches under the hem of his shirt, runs her fingertips over his lower stomach, his jeans hanging low on his hips, rubs her thumbs in a circular motion over his hip bones. Answer to that question: If you do that to him, he'll moan like an animal and push you into the countertop. Then he'll run his hands under your shirt, and hold both your breasts in the V between the thumb and index finger on each hand.

All of a sudden, she has so many questions she wants to know the answers to. Is he as big as she imagines he is? He feels like he may be. How would the stubble on his chin feel on her inner thigh? If he was on top of her, would she still be able to see his forearms? Or . . . the questions are infinite, and she probably couldn't get them all answered if she spent the rest of her life with him, much less tonight, or, if she's lucky and plays her cards right, the next few weeks.

_Please forget that this ultimately means you're going to lose your best friend. That he's a professional at this. That you don't belong here. That you're in the D.I. under false pretenses. That it may not be safe to get mixed up like this with the man who talked you in here. Forget it. Forget. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Shut off your Goddamn brain for once. _

She works at his belt buckle, and he chants her name against her neck. "Juliet," over and over. She has to stifle a laugh, knowing this word sent some poor woman off on the sub, across the ocean.

"God. We have to do this right now," he groans, putting her on the counter as she works his belt free of the loops.

And someone knocks at the door. Of course. Of course they do. "Fucking Christ. I swear to God. If that's goddamn Miles at the door, I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna fuckin' kill him."

She's running her fingers lightly down the small of his back, working them under the back of his jeans. "Ignore it," she whispers in his ear.

More knocking. "Jim? You in there?" It's Horace hollering. Dammit. See this is what she was worrying about. James has to stay on Horace's good side. Has to be Head of Security on the up and up. Not ignoring his boss just so he can bang her on the kitchen counter. No. They need to be smart about this. Safe. This was really stupid. A dumb idea. Booze and rain and too-hot cabins don't mix.

He rests his forehead on her shoulder. "Can you get the door?" he asks. "I need ta, uhm, get myself under control, adjust myself a little, 'fore I go meet the boss."

"Yeah," she breathes, although she imagines her cheeks are flushed three shades of red. She runs the kitchen tap, quickly splashes on some cold water.

She swings the front door open wide. _Hello, Horace, nothing to see here._

"Juliet!" he seems surprised to see her. And, "Oh, I. . .I'm sorry. . . was I interrupting something?"

Crap. What exactly does she look like? She's all buttoned up, right? All dressed?

"Oh, no. Nothing at all. In fact, I was on my way out. See you later, Jim," she calls to the kitchen.

She's stepping out the front door when she realizes that in her haste to run, she left her shoes. "Shoes!" she declares, all smiles and nervous energy . . . oh, this happens all the time when you're time traveling. Yes, you get all hot and bothered by your sexy fellow time-traveler/all-time best friend/kind-of-former con man. Then you have to throw on the brakes when your hippy boss comes to the door. Yep, yep, yep. It's just a time traveler thing.

Her shoes are where, exactly? Under the couch.

James is out of the kitchen now, and she's not going to look at him. Ever again. Or, maybe for a few days at least.

She hears Horace say, "Sorry for the late notice, Jim, but DeGroot called. We're going to need a meeting tomorrow to discuss some issues with the Hostiles. Radzinsky says he can get a link-up at 2 PM. I'll need you there."

She's out the door, so misses James' response.

Oh, good. Very, very good. They've been put on skeleton work crews since the rain started, and she was worried they'd have enough time on their hands to, well, revisit this tomorrow. But, she has to work a few hours in the morning. Now he has this meeting in the afternoon. Then, she knows they're both working on Monday. She can come up with some kind of excuse for Tuesday. By Wednesday . . . well, this will all be forgotten.

Bullet dodged. That's not to say she doesn't lie in bed wondering about all her new questions. What would he feel like inside her? STOP IT. GO TO SLEEP.

**FLASHBACK Five Minutes Ago**

"Five, six, seven!" Eleanor counts her last man into the green Home circle.

"Play again?" Alicia asks. This is at least their third round of Sorry! This insane rain. It's going to rain every day for the rest of time. Except it won't. Juliet knows the future. It stops raining by September 2001, she knows that for certain.

"I don't know," Juliet hesitates. She was thinking of a nap. Lying in bed. It's about the only thing worth doing in this neverending monsoon.

The phone rings. Eleanor jumps to get it.

"Come on, one more round," Alicia wheedles.

"Juliet! Jim on the phone for you," Eleanor puts the phone down on the kitchen counter.

Dammit. Why's he calling? Doesn't he have that meeting? She doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to talk to him. She doesn't want him to apologize, doesn't want him to say they made a mistake. But she doesn't want to do that again (well, she does, but knows she _shouldn't_). She also doesn't want him to pretend nothing happened. Basically, she wants to avoid him for at least three days, and then they can pretend nothing happened. Or pretend that whatever happened, didn't matter.

"Jim," Alicia sighs. "God, he is a good looking man. I love it when he flirts with me."

_He's just trying to get extra books_, Juliet thinks. _He just flirts with you because he wants something. Damn, we all fall for him, don't we?_

She takes the phone from the counter. "Hello?" tentative, unsure. _Don't you have a meeting?_

"Meeting got called off." How does he read her mind like that? "Was wonderin' if you wanted to come over."

"Uhm, well, we're in the middle of Sorry! I . . ."

"I got checkers."

"I don't know."

"Look, I just wanna spend the afternoon with ya. It . . .it don't have to mean nothin' or, I mean, unless you want . . . Dammit, just come over here."

"I'll think about it. OK? Bye."

She hangs up before he has a chance to say anything else. She stands in silence, peering through the kitchen window. Just right over there. Across the quad. His lights are all on. All she's got to do is dash through the monsoon and knock on his door.

Do that and ruin everything. Or not. Or . . .why does this have to be so difficult? Day 338 in the Dharma Initiative, and she may just be ruining everything. Or not. She could just stay here.

She looks over at Alicia and Eleanor, Alicia setting up the board. "So, you in?" she asks, gesturing to Juliet's blue pieces. "You've got to play. It's better with three people."

Juliet takes her umbrella out of the umbrella stand. "I'm so sorry, guys, but I need to go." She dashes out the front door, racing across the quad.

She's not sure if she just made the worst or best choice of her whole life.


	50. There's Something About Jimmy

**FYI, I'm doing it again. Doing what? Streeeeeeeeeeetching things out because I have an upcoming chapter I haven't gotten figured out. Sorry! Anyway, consider this the first of a few "marking time" chapters. Ringing endorsement, I know!**

* * *

Oh, God. Why did she say yes? He calls up out of the blue, and she drops everything? Like she doesn't have anything better to do on a Saturday night? (She doesn't.) And what is she going to wear?

Drinks at the hotel . . . the very, very _fancy_ hotel. Seriously? What's the attire there? Lauren thinks she should call Rachel. She'd know. Not only that, she'd probably have something Lauren could borrow. Owes her a favor, in fact. But she's got something going on (note to self: ask next week what the heck it is). Plus, she can be weird about that sort of thing anyway. Half the time all "there's more to life than t-shirts and ponytails. Show off your assets, girlfriend." And when she does? When Lauren snagged herself a guy this past spring and all the way through the fall? Well, that's the other half of the time when Rachel is suspicious and judgmental and "you can do better," and what the hell? AREN'T YOU THE ONE ALWAYS TELLING ME TO SHOW OFF MY ASSETS?

That's what you get for a having a half-judgmental, half-encouraging neighbor. Instead Lauren calls and leaves a message with her friend Eileen. No luck. Then her gay friend Joe. He'd know what to wear. Again, no luck. It _is _Saturday night. God, Jimmy must think she's such a loser. No plans on a Saturday night.

Drinks at a hotel? What's he expecting? She's not that kind of girl! But of course he thinks she is, doesn't he? She slept with him after knowing him for, what . . . 48 hours? Oh, God. Last he heard, though, she had a boyfriend. That had been simple and steady last she saw Jimmy, right? Of course, that flamed out when Pete got all weird and possessive, turning her life into some kind of overwrought Mariah Carey ballad, but Jimmy doesn't have to know that, right? Should she tell him? He lives in Los Angeles. It's not like he needs to know everything about her. Right? Right.

Or why did she even agree to meet him if it's going to tie her stomach up in knots like this? Same reason she slept with him without even really knowing him. Because he may just be the cutest, sweetest, hottest man she's ever met, and she's never regretting sleeping with him. Until now. Now he's got the whole wrong idea about her. She'll tell him she and Pete are still together. Or not. Why does she have to tell him anything? He lives across the country. This is just drinks.

_Just drinks, just drinks, just drinks,_ she says to herself, strolling into the hotel lobby. Flattering sundress (Joe called back with his opinion). Too flattering? (No, Joe wouldn't lead her astray).

She sees Jimmy across the room and waves to him. He smiles, waves back, and approaches her. She gets very nervous and sweaty (ooh gross, chill out chill out). He steps close, holds her elbow, and leans over to kiss her cheek. "It's really great to see you," he says. "I'm sorry for being so last minute, I hope I didn't put a big crimp in your weekend plans."

She's at ease almost immediately, just being in his presence. "I was going to organize my sock drawer, but it can wait." He laughs. _I'm kind of not kidding, Jimmy._

"Hey, I got something cool to show you!" he says, leading her by the elbow into the hotel bar. He's already gotten a table, right up next to the enormous aquarium that fills the center of the room. "Check it out! Feeding time!" There's a diver inside the tank, shaking chum from a net, and fish and skate and even a tiny octopus gather around. It's really pretty cool, but what's cooler is watching Jimmy, his eyes dancing, full of joy, every so often, blurting out, "Hey, look at that one!" He's so deliciously cute. Even now when he's telling her some random factoid about manta rays.

Once the diver leaves and the fish disperse, Jimmy waves a waiter over to take their drink orders. Once he's dispatched, Lauren asks, "So what are you doing in Miami?"

He knits his brow. "I, uh. . . well, uhm, there's this charity we gave a bunch of money to and so just came out to meet the woman in charge of it."

"What kind of charity?"

"It's like, uhm . . . well, like counseling, or . . . I don't really know." He shrugs. "Can't keep up with it all. Mom and Dad shovel the money out about as fast as it comes in."

_But if they're shoveling it out as fast as it comes in . . . why are we meeting at this fancy, super-expensive hotel?_ "So, your watch is a fake?" she points to the Rolex on his left arm.

He sighs. "It's a _lot _of money, Lauren. Even with most of it getting shoveled out, we still have . . ." He rubs the back of his head. "I don't like talking about it, OK?"

"I broke up with my boyfriend," she blurts. Uhm. Wasn't she not going to say anything about that?

His eyes light up (_my God_, he has gorgeous eyes) and he smiles (_my God_, he has a gorgeous smile). "I'm real sorry to hear that," he says.

"No you're not," she laughs.

"You have a wonderful laugh."

Really? Really? She's always thought it's too barky, too deep, not ladylike. "Thanks," she mumbles.

They stare at each other for a while. Where's this heading? He lives like 3,000 miles away.

He clears his throat. "Got big holiday plans?" Changing the subject. Although, what was the subject to begin with? Her horsey laugh? Her lack of boyfriend? His money? Just staring at each other?

"Weekend after next I'm going snowboarding out West with a bunch of friends."

"Yeah? Where?"

"Tahoe."

"No sh . . . foolin'! My folks have a place there. Do you need a place to stay? I'm sure you could borrow it if you needed to."

"Thanks. We've got a place, though."

"OK, sure. Yeah." The waiter brings their drinks. Once he leaves, Jimmy raises his beer for a toast. "Good to see you again, Lauren," he says.

He's so sweet. "You too," she replies.

"Probably a long shot," he says, taking a deep drink of his beer. "I'll be on winter break while you're in Tahoe. I wouldn't wanna intrude on you and your friends, but, I dunno, would you want to, uhm, well . . . maybe you could extend your stay? I'll have that whole next week off. Would you wanna stay with me? A week?"

HELL YES SHE WOULD, except, well, how desperate does she want to seem? And that's . . . a week? A week with him. God, yes. "That sounds great, Jimmy, but I'm not sure I could get the time off work." (She totally could. She hasn't been on an extended vacation since she started at the hospital.)

"Yeah, I figured," he caves kind of easily. Then, "But it is just a week. C'mon. It'll be fun. I got season passes to the mountain and everything." He smiles at her, and, holy hell, _those dimples_. He's doing that on purpose, right?

"I . . ." she very much wants to say yes, but needs an excuse to say no. "I'd have to get someone to watch my dog."

"Who's gonna watch it when you're gone for the weekend?"

"My neighbor and her son, it's . . ." _My neighbor who totally owes me a favor. That's maybe kinda like fate, right? Sorta? Sure._ "You know what? OK. OK. I'm in."

He smiles so hard it makes her laugh. He leans over the table, "I think your laugh is very sexy," he murmurs. Oh God, she hardly knows him, but she's falling so hard for this guy.

The rest of the night she tells him all about her job at the hospital, nutrition plans and feeding tubes and dietary counseling, and he seems actually interested in it, or does a good job pretending. A few more drinks, and he walks her to the cabstand out front, leans over to kiss her on the lips, not particularly chaste, but not something you'd be embarrassed to be seen doing in public, either, and . . . and he tells her goodbye. He'll see her in Tahoe. This . . . he didn't invite her up to his room, and she's kind of pleased and relived but also disappointed, and . . . well, there's that week in Tahoe to look forward to.

* * *

The "cabin" in Tahoe is nicer than Lauren's house. Nicer than anywhere she's ever lived maybe. She pretends she's used to this kind of thing, chic second homes and luxury cars and fancy watches. Inside the cabin, Jimmy says, "My folks usually spend a few weeks every January and August here." He shrugs, "Dad's kinda particular about things, so, uhm . . . that's why it's so nice." He looks embarrassed.

She laughs, and he takes her by the waist to pull her toward him and kiss her. Kind of like at the hotel cabstand, but maybe she wouldn't want to be seen doing this in public, she thinks, as his hands drift down, sliding into the back pockets of her jeans. After a moment, he removes his hands and pushes her away, gently. "Let me show you to your room." He picks up her bags. She squints up at him. _Her_ room? Uhm, OK.

She follows him down the hall. It's a nice enough room, twin beds on either side of the wall. "So, I only put sheets on that one," he gestures to the bed on the left. He puts her bags down on the other bed. "If you got a thing about sleepin' on a particular side of the room or somethin' . . ."

"I. . . this is fine, thanks." She starts unzipping the bag with her clothes for riding, her waterproof pants and goggles and gloves. She risks, "Where are you sleeping?"

He says, "I didn't want, well, I _did_ want. . . I . . ." He folds his arms over his chest. "So, I guess, you know, kinda the whole point of inviting you here. . . well, not the whole point, which I guess is kinda the point . . I . . ."

She can't help from smiling, letting a laugh escape. He smiles at that, then says, "My bedroom is next door, and you are welcome to join me there."

She's scared to lose her nerve, or get weird and too-talky or too-laughy, so she zips up her bags, picks them up, and says, "Show me the way." It's why she came, right? Mostly? And if he ends up thinking she's some kind of super slutty girl who can be bought by a week's stay in Tahoe, well, what does it matter? He lives all the way across the country.

His room is right next door, and although it has a double bed, the room is small. "Maybe you could leave your bags next door," he says.

"This super nice house has only tiny bedrooms?" she asks.

"Uhm, well, no. There's the master bedroom down the hall," he points over his shoulder with his thumb. "But, I . . . feel like, see the thing is. . . I think there may be pictures of me when I'm a little kid in there, and that would give me performance anxiety."

"Fair enough."

He reaches out for her hand and pulls her to him. "Don't know why I feel so nervous. We've done this before. Just, I guess, I hope maybe we could . . ."

"Stop talking, Jimmy," she says, standing on her tippy toes to kiss him. He grins, and wow, she could fall inside his dimples maybe. He picks her up like she weighs nothing and carries her to his bed.

* * *

Holy crap. These have been the best four days of her life. She's going to blink, and this week is going to be over, and she thinks she may be in love with this guy, which is impossible, because it's not like she's known him forever, but even so . . .

His season passes are at Squaw Valley, and he's clearly more comfortable on the board than she is (she only does this once a year with her friends), but he sticks with her. He whoops and hollers when he gets to going fast and he looks delicious with his face red from the cold, his eyes somehow even bluer against the white snow of the mountain.

They eat heartily, at fancy resort places and dive burger joints ("dive" burger joints where the burgers cost $17) and on the floor at the cabin. Jimmy bakes ziti, Lauren makes omelets in the mornings. When their muscles are sore and their limbs are tired, and she thinks she could probably collapse in bed and sleep for the rest of time . . .

They do collapse into bed, but not so much with the sleeping, and ahhhhh! He must have magic fingers or lips or (goodness! She blushes to even think about it) . . . a magic tongue. This is why she's been dreaming about him off and on since their little post-wedding encounter.

How is it someone hasn't snatched him up already, anyway? Is there something about Jimmy she hasn't discovered yet? Is it because he can't concentrate if he's in a bar or restaurant playing ESPN? Is it that he'll stare over your shoulder only half-pretending to listen, while watching the scores and injury reports scroll by on the ticker? And then say something about his fantasy football team? Well, Lauren likes football, so she can live with that.

Or is it because he's got something a little bit dorky to say about, about, well, everything? The manta rays at the aquarium in the Miami hotel bar, the igneous rock formations on the mountain, the constellations you can see from the back deck. She thinks it's kind of cute, and besides only someone with a touch of nerd would be even remotely interested in her master's thesis.

"It was, uhm, well, an analysis of the intake of protein by predialysis patients with chronic renal failure."

"Really? That sounds interesting."

IT DOES? He's not just pretending. So, she blah blahs about essential amino acid ketoanologues, and . . . and . . . she can really be as dweeby as she wants about her research and the elderly patients she's been seeing, and he's not going to roll his eyes or judge her for it? Oh, GOD, she is in love.

On Thursday, they take a day off the mountain. She pokes around the cabin when he's taking a nap on the couch. She finished her book on the flight out here, spent the weekend with friends catching up on Eileen's _US Weekly_, so she's up to date on the Pitt-Jolie twins. Out of reading material, no problem. Like any vacation home, the bookcases here are full of battered old paperbacks with yellow-edged pages, Louis L'Amour cowboy novels, and _The Name of the Rose_, _North and South_, and _The Thornbirds_. Musty hardbacks like _The Hunt for Red October, Mommie Dearest, Sophie's Choice,_ and _The World According to Garp_. Lauren pulls _The Thornbirds_ off the shelf and reads a few chapters, flipping to the steamy parts.

Jimmy wakes up in time to watch an early evening bowl game on ESPN. Lauren stops reading, casts around for a slip of paper to use as a bookmark. Finding nothing, she folds down the corner to mark her page, her guilt assuaged somewhat by the pre-existing crease where someone, once upon a time, folded down the corner, too.

Jimmy's engrossed in the game, so she decides to snoop around some more. Sure enough, the master bedroom's got a pretty ridiculous picture of Jimmy, in a 5x7 frame on the dresser, clearly a school portrait. He must be in, what? Third grade? His hair's kind of long in back, almost a mullet. This would've been what? 1988? His adult teeth look way, way, way too big for his face.

She brings it out to him on the couch, laughing. He snatches it away, grimacing. "Oh, hell, this is awful. Why does Mom even still have this?" he moans. Lauren tries to take the picture back, but he stands, holds it up high. He strolls to the kitchen, pops open the lid on the trash can with the foot pedal, and dangles the picture over the top.

"Think anyone'll notice if it gets tossed?"

"Jimmy!" Lauren squeals, reaching out and taking the picture back. "I think it's sweet she still has this." (note to self: if Jimmy ever visits Mom and Dad's, scrub the house of all pictures between 1991 and 1997).

Jimmy calls in a pizza order, pops the lid on a beer, hands another out to Lauren, and then parks himself back on the couch for the game. Perfect time to call and check on the dog.

Rachel answers on the second ring.

"Hey, Rach. It's Lauren. Just checking in on Henry."

"Sorry, but your whole house burned down. Henry didn't make it."

"That's not funny."

"Didn't I tell you not to worry? It's fine. Totally fine. Everything's fine. _Have. Fun_. Speaking of, how goes it?"

"Great! The slopes out here are so much better than back East, and the snowpack is . . ."

"Lauren. You really think I give a shit about the snowpack? I mean the guy. Dish, please."

She steals a glance at Jimmy. "Come on!" he yells at the football players on TV, and Lauren suppresses a laugh. She slides open the glass door to the deck and slips out.

"Oh my God, Rachel, he's incredible. He's nice and fun and, oh my God, he's good looking and . . ."

"You sleeping with him?"

"What do you think?"

"I think . . ." Oh, crap. Now Rachel's going to lecture her on men or something, _and I. Am. Just. Your. Neighbor. I don't get your weird hang-ups. _Rachel seems to change course, though. "You haven't even told me his name."

Lauren rolls her eyes. She thinks it's kind of cute, but she imagines Rachel's going to make fun. "Jimmy. His name is Jimmy."

Extended silence. Rachel must be coming up with a snappy insult. "Where . . . where did you . . . you said he's from Los Angeles?"

"Right."

"How. . . uh, . .. he has a house in Tahoe? How . . . how can he afford . . ." Rachel's sounding stumbly and weird.

"His parents are rich. Got in on the ground floor at Micros. . ."

"Put him on the phone."

"Rachel, I'm not going to . . ."

"Put him on, Lauren, I swear to God . . ."

"OK! Chill out! Geez!"

She slides the door open, hands out the phone to Jimmy. "My neighbor wants to talk to you."

_The hell?_ Jimmy's expression reads. Lauren shrugs. Jimmy takes the phone. "Hello?"

"Jimmy LaFleur is that you?" she hears Rachel practically screech, and . . . they know each other?

She only hears Jimmy's end of the rest of the conversation, and about all she gathers is that, yep, they know each other. He hangs up, then runs his fingers through his hair, sits down.

"You know my neighbor?"

"Yeah, yeah." He seems shaken. "She's uhm, my mom's . . . well, she's . . . uhm, my mom is her aunt."

"Woah. Small world, huh?"

"You got no clue." He shakes his head. "Seems like I can't go out with anybody without it bein' all wrapped up with my parents."

Why is this a bad thing? She always got the impression he got along just fine with his parents. Besides, how is it a big deal that he's related to her neighbor? She actually thinks it's kind of cool. Like "meant to be" or something. If she believed in that sort of thing. Which - She Does Not. She sits by him on the couch.

He says, "Speaking of small world, this is probably a long shot, but I just gotta check and make sure. I think you're too young, but please tell me you never went out with a guy with a thick Southern accent, kinda scruffy. Woulda called himself 'Sawyer.' Probably woulda called you something ridiculous like 'Hot Lips' or something."

"Uhm, no?" That sounds kind of horrifying, actually. _Hot Lips,_ bleh.

He breathes a sigh of relief. "OK, just checking."

The doorbell rings, and she gets up to let the pizza man in. By the time she's gotten the pizza box open, pulled some paper towels off the roll, opened two more beers, put the pizza on plates, Jimmy seems mostly back to normal. They eat and watch the game sitting on the floor with their backs up against the couch. He absentmindedly rubs her thigh. He turns off the TV at halftime, throws his head back against the couch seat, turns and smiles at her.

"Were you close to your cousin?" she asks.

He stares at her blankly, blinks his eyes a few times in confusion. "I . . . don't . . ."

"Rachel's sister. Who disappeared? She's your cousin, right? I didn't know Rachel till a few years after, but . . . that must've been so hard. Were you all close?"

"Ah!" he says, catching on. "Well, we were a lot closer when I was little. I mean, when I was_ really_ young, we were like this . . ." he holds up his right hand, middle and index fingers twisted together. He smiles a half-smile, recalling bittersweet childhood memories with his cousin.

"I'm really sorry, Jimmy," she says, rubbing his shoulder. She remembers something. Maybe this will make him feel better. "My boss? The doc? He went to med school with your cousin . . . Juliet, right? Yeah, he and I ran into Rachel doing some of her counseling stuff at the hospital, put two and two together. . . Anyway, the point is, he went to med school with your cousin. Said she was_ brilliant_. He said it was a real tragedy what happened. She could've done so much for so many people."

He sucks on his lower lip, and his eyes look so sad. He turns to her for just a second before looking up at the ceiling. He whispers, "She did so much for me. I hope that's enough."

Well, crap, that backfired, didn't it? She just wanted him to know that after, what? Ten years? Or whatever . . . after however many years, people haven't totally forgotten his cousin. She thinks of her cousins, growing up with them, holidays, summers at Pap Pap's . . . They really aren't so close anymore, but even so . . . She thinks of Anson, the cool older cousin who never treated her like the annoying tag-along little girl. She sees the guy maybe once a year now, but even so, she was in his wedding (and maybe that was just Aunt Kim doing a favor for Mom, but still). And, well, hey . . .

"How come Rachel didn't come to your sister's wedding?" _We could've figured all this out a lot sooner._

He shakes his head, grits his teeth, and what? What is this all about? "How the hell should I know, Lauren?" he snarls. She recoils, and he reaches out to her on reflex. "Sorry, sorry. I don't know, OK? This whole thing, it just makes me really uncomfortable to talk about what might have been."

"With . . . you mean, with your cousin?"

"Right, with my _cousin_, yeah." He rolls his eyes, and there's very very clearly more he's not telling her, but OK.

He pulls her onto his lap, starts rubbing the back side of her left thigh. Right where she'd earlier complained of a sore muscle. Not used to such strenuous activity, and, yes, she means all the snowboarding – mostly. He really does have magic fingers. She shifts to straddle him. He tastes like beer and pizza, and the hair on top of his head is sticking up in spikes, especially toward the back, from where he'd slept on it, and he's just so deliciously cute and sexy and for now, she'll forget all that. For now. (Note to self: Find out from Rachel what the deal is).

"You ready for bed?" he murmurs in her ear.

"Have I ever said no?"

* * *

She's snuggled into his chest, and she keeps revising what she thinks his best-looking part is. She's probably considered everything from head to toe (and, yes, yes, _everything_ in between) at some point or another. She's trying to keep herself awake, because they're only here two more nights, and there's plenty of time for sleep when this is all over. But he's rubbing her lower back with those magic fingers (forget the chest, the current favorite part is his fingers), and it's so soothing, and she Can't Fall Asleep. NO.

She thinks again on how weird he got out of the blue with his cousin and all. She thinks about what she knows about his family and . .. huh. Huh. OK, she wasn't going to bring it up again, but this is kind of funny. Surely he'll see the humor.

"Jimmy?" she whispers to him in the dark.

"Hmmmm?" he puts his entire enormous hand on her hip and turns her toward him.

"I was just thinking. Your mom's name is Juliet, right? Just like your cousin." He'd been using his hand to press her to him. He uses it now to push her away. He gets really really still. Expectant, expressionless. It'll be OK. It'll be OK when she tells him the punchline. "I just think it's funny that in your whole family, you've only got three names. Or variations of three names, I guess." She giggles.

He exhales heavily, but he doesn't laugh. "Guess we aren't very creative," he mumbles, smirking. "Don't worry. We'll come up with all new names for our kids."

_Uhhhhhhhhh. What did he just say? He's kidding, right? Right?_ Except . . . well, she would love to let her imagination run riot thinking about what that means. She stares at him, and it's too dark in here, and his face is so perfectly still. Before she can start stammering something, he says, "I been thinking . . . we got a lot of hospitals in LA, Lauren. I'm sure one of 'em could use a dietician."

She's proud of herself for her snappy, empowered answer: "Well, Jimmy. We have a lot of high schools in Miami. I'm sure one of _them_ could use a science teacher."

"Fair enough," he concedes. He rolls her over, looms over her. "I just want you to know, I've been thinking about us. I'd like to figure out a way to make this work."

"Me too," she says.

"The last thing I wanna do is promise something I can't deliver on. That's important to me, and I don't wanna say one thing and end up doing another, but, I guess I'd like to try to keep this going." He dips his head down to kiss her, and she puckers up. He feints at the last minute, though, to kiss behind her ear, chuckling as he does so.

Lauren thanks the moon and stars above she managed to keep herself awake for this.

* * *

She's tucked up against his solid warmth, early morning sunlight filling the room, bright, snow-reflected sunlight, and that's . . . that's not what woke her up, is it? No. That – that tinkly chirpy sound. That's what woke her up. It's Jimmy's ring tone. Jimmy waking up, groaning, crawling over her. His phone is in his jeans pocket, and his jeans are on her side of the bed. Lauren tucks her head under the pillow. They really didn't sleep a lot last night.

"What?" Jimmy barks into the phone, voice sleep-roughened and angry. Lauren can't make out much through the pillow muffle, just someone frantic. "Wait. . . What? No . . . no, just just . .. hold on. Don't . . . I'll call you back" Jimmy sounds less angry now, but still disturbed. He closes his phone, jumps out of bed, shimmying into his jeans.

Lauren's worried, confused. "Who was it?" Jimmy pays her no mind, snaps his jeans, picks his glasses up off the floor. "Jimmy, what's going on?"

"It was my sister."

She sits up, clutching the sheets to her chest, feeling strangely outside the circle. Shut out. "Is everything OK?" Are his parents OK? His sister? Anson?_ Talk to me, Jimmy, you're freaking me out._

"Yeah, I just . . . I gotta . . ." he looks at the door. Where is he going? Is he just going to leave her here? What's going on? Jimmy runs a hand down his face, back up over again, over his head, rests his hand on the back of his neck. He looks at the door one more time, then comes to sit next to Lauren.

"I have a sister," he says, almost like he can't believe it.

"I know that. Isn't that . . . didn't you . . . wasn't that her on the phone?"

He closes his eyes, shakes his head very rapidly. "No. I mean, yeah, yeah, that's who that was. I mean . . .she just told me . . . we got a sister we didn't know about. She's seven."

"Whoah. You just found this out? Does your mom know? You're saying your dad had an affair?"

"Uhm, no. No, it's not like that."

"I . . . you said . . . I'm . . . you said she's seven?"

"Yeah." He stands up, vigorously scratches the back of his head. He doesn't have his shirt on yet. Mmmmmm . . . OK, concentrate concentrate.

"Jimmy, I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. Of course not. Of course you don't, because the truth is so fucking ridiculous. It's . . ." He turns to stare at her then, his eyes drinking in her face, considering something. What is it? "See, Lauren, the thing is . . . the very bizarre thing . . . it's it's it's . . . it's my parents. They, uhm, are . . . not entirely . . . well, the thing is they're . . ." and then he mumbles something she doesn't understand. Or doesn't catch, or maybe she just doesn't know . . . He looks at her expectantly. Like he just dropped some giant secret, and what he said must've been important, so she has to try at least.

She says, "I'm sorry . . . I don't know . . . I've never heard of . . . what's a tom troffer?" That's what he said, right?

He rolls his eyes. He stares at the ceiling. He bites the inside of his cheek. Then he stops. Then he looks right at her with his face so perfectly still, staring at her with those eyes that she thinks are so pretty, but now are kind of freaking her out a little. Why doesn't he move his face? "Not. . . not tom troffer. They. Are. Time. Travelers."

Lauren laughs hard, her crazy deep, horsey, unladylike laugh that he's so fond of.

"It's not funny, Lauren. I'm serious."

And oh shit. So, there it is. That's why he's still single. That's what it is. The something she's been trying to figure out. Here's what it is about Jimmy: he's crazy. He's unbalanced, and he seriously believes his parents are time travelers. Well. Great. He did seem too good to be true. There you have it.

"Jimmy, please. Stop and think about what you're saying." _Please, please just be kidding. Please._

"God, Lauren, I know how it sounds. OK, I'm not an idiot. I know what it sounds like, but . . . but . .. but ask your neighbor. Ask Rachel. My mom's not her aunt. She's her sister. OK? She's her sister. The one who disappeared. That's my mom, not my cousin . . ."

Jimmy talks for half an hour non-stop. On and on and on. His mom, his dad, time travel, a crazy island, all their money, Rachel, Kate Austen, the last girl Jimmy dated, and, God help her, God help her, Lauren is starting to believe this. Either it's true, or he's the best liar she's ever known.

He finishes with, "And to top it all off, I just found out we've got a sister. Or, half-sister, I guess. A seven-year-old sister. I mean, fuck. How weird is that?"

"Not any weirder than time travel, I'd hazard to guess," Lauren offers, halfway to admitting she buys his crazy story.

"Sometimes, the time travel is the least weird bit about this whole thing," he says.

She doesn't see how that's even remotely possible, but it's his crazy story. She supposes he gets to perceive it however he wants. "Now what?" she asks him.

"My sister's freaking out about it," he says. Then laughs. "My _adult _sister, not the other one." He really gets laughing then, and she can't help but join in. "Lauren, now's your chance to escape. You really wanna get mixed up in all this?"

"I think if you're mixed up in it, I don't mind."

* * *

**OHHHHHHHHH. I don't even know how to end this chapter, because "What's next?" AIEEEEEE I really really don't know. WORKING. ON. IT.**


	51. Days of Their Lives, 7

_**December 25, 1979**_

Miles' gift to her, the Bing Crosby Christmas album, spins on the record player, and thank GOD, because while nominally Juliet has nothing against John Denver or The Carpenters (other than the fact that they all but scream "WELCOME TO THE SEVENTIES"), they had been the only Christmas albums they owned, and if she had to listen one more time to John Denver singing "Away in a Manger," someone was going to get hurt. John Denver, preferably, but he doesn't ever come by the house, so. . . And hey! Did you know? He's going to die in a plane crash, and Karen Carpenter has anorexia (_Trust me, I'm from the future_). Cheery! Merry Christmas! Now, let's all listen to the delightfully awful ditty, "Please, Daddy (Don't Get Drunk This Christmas)" (side one on the John Denver album).

And, yes, Daddy, please don't get drunk this Christmas, although she knows he will, and will try to hide it, but it's the only way he can act even remotely seasonal, because their marriage is collapsing (has collapsed), and they have to pretend for their girls. Don't want to ruin the holiday, oh no! And she knows it's tense and weird, and Mom and Dad aren't speaking, and Rachel is acting out because she can sense something's up. Juliet can, too, but instead of acting up, she's trying to be extra good, and not complain that she wanted a Lite Brite not Shrinky Dinks, and trying to figure out why Mom and Dad didn't give each other gifts this year. Tense. And Awkward. And Weird. And Awful.

That's a thousand miles and at least two temperate zones away, though.

Instead she's here. It's colder here, actually snowing even. But it's not tense or awkward or weird. She's just put Rachel down for the night. James is driving Miles home. One too many eggnogs, they decided, so James is his chauffeur for the evening. Juliet leans against the front window and watches the snow come down, enjoys listening to Bing (thank you, thank you, thank you, Miles). She should pick up the living room, covered as it is in discarded wrapping paper and ribbons. The idea of bending over and picking it up, though, is overwhelming. Miles and James did it once already anyway, before discovering that Rachel preferred playing in the shiny paper more than she liked her new tricycle. Then she proceeded to turn away her new Playskool shopping cart in favor of the box it came in.

Juliet could clean up the kitchen, where they've left out the dishes from dinner, from lunch, heck, even from this morning. Blueberry pancakes, and James thinks this should be a family tradition, and why not? God, those plates must be horribly sticky, so, no, no . . . she'll soak them overnight. Instead, she'll just watch the snow come down. OR, well, here's something she can do: tack Miles' stocking to the mantle. That was her gift to him, and she thinks maybe he was as happy with that as she was with her new Bing Crosby album. Yes! She'll tack his stocking to the mantle, because she's too freaking lazy (too freaking pregnant) to do anything else right now.

It is not tense or awkward or weird here. There is a fire in the fireplace, snow falling on the front yard, a sleeping child upstairs, another who is (for once) not using her bladder as a trampoline, wrapping paper all around, dirty dishes in the kitchen. They tried a silly "sit in front of the tree" picture, but Rachel wouldn't cooperate, refusing to look at Uncle Miles, no matter how many goofy faces he pulled, and when it was all over with, Juliet couldn't get up off the floor, so that had been a disaster. That was the "disaster" of Christmas 1979. Not Mom finding the necklace Dad was going to give to someone else. Not deciding on the 24th to give up marriage counseling. Not icy silences and muttered insults. No, the disaster here was a botched family photo and too goddamn much Carpenters on the record player.

And ahhhh. Now? Bing. Timeless, sort of like she is (is becoming?). They used to have Bing back on the Island, and nothing tops drunken Miles singing along to "Christmas in Kilarney." Juliet crosses her arms, leans on the wall, stares out the window, mesmerized by the falling snow.

"What's on the TV?"

She practically jumps out of her skin. She hadn't heard James come in.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle ya." He leans against the wall on the other side of the window, pushing aside the curtain with the back of his hand. "Pretty out there, huh?"

She nods. Bing starts up with "I'll Be Home for Christmas." James looks alarmed. "I'll change it," he says, turning toward the record player "Want a little 'Mele Kalikimaka'?"

She smiles what she imagines is a half-smile. "Leave it. It's OK."

He leans against the wall again, and reaches out to stroke her face. "Seriously? It ain't no big deal to move the needle just a bit."

First time he ever saw her cry (or more accurately, saw her frantically wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands): Christmas 1974, Dharma party, Bing on the record player. "I'll Be Home for Christmas." If only in my dreams. If only in my dreams.

Six Christmases on that damn Island. Three here in 1970s Michigan. Nine Christmases she's been gone. Nine Christmases this very song has brought her to tears. Nine Christmases she's been home only in her dreams. No, eight Christmases she's been home only in her dreams. This Christmas? This ninth one? She _is_ home. No more dreaming about it. This is home. This is better than what she thinks of (used to think of) as home.

Her eyes are brimming with tears. He looks uncomfortable. "I'm turnin' that shit off." She reaches out for his arm to stop him.

"Don't. I'm happy. Happy tears, OK?" She wipes her cheeks with the backs of her hands (see how far they've gotten in five years?)

"Whatever you say."

"This is better than my real home. Or, well, I guess this is my real home, and, trust me, it's better than anything going on down in Miami right about now."

"Yeah? How so?"

"My parents have been going to marriage counseling all fall."

He interrupts. "That why you been obssessin' over them lately?"

"That, yes, and thinking of our own kids . . . all of it, I guess. Anyway, I think their final session was last Thursday. Then my mom found this necklace my dad gave . .. or is planning to give . . . will give?" (TIME TRAVEL! GAH!) "Well, give it to his girlfriend. It's really tense down there, I remember that. But I didn't understand why. Last night, instead of staying up late putting out Santa presents, they sat up late deciding to call it quits. As of today, their marriage is kaput."

"They told y'all that on Christmas? No offense, Jules, but that's some shitty-ass parenting right there."

She laughs quietly. "No, no they didn't tell us on Christmas. They didn't want to 'ruin our holiday.' Then tomorrow, Gramma and Grandpa Hill are coming to visit for the week, so they put it off till the New Year. Except I'm going to get the flu, so they're going to put it off a little longer, then Dad's going on a business trip – with his girlfriend, mind you. By the time he comes back, Rachel's gonna have the flu . . . Then, _then,_ finally they tell us. Mom'll spin this whole bunch of BS about what love means and yada yada yada. . . on Valentine's Day." She rolls her eyes.

James makes a little round "o" with his mouth. He says, "All these years, I just kinda guessed you thought it was a lame holiday, 'cause, well, it _is_ sorta lame. How come you never told me this before?"

She shrugs, avoids his question. "God, you know what?" she says. "I was such a little softy. Such a romantic. I loved that holiday, dressed in pink and everything. I'd gone to school that day with a special Valentine for this boy, Billy, I liked." She rolls her eyes again. "I hoped maybe he'd give me a special Valentine, too. He didn't, if you're keeping score. Turns out, he thought I was annoying because I knew all the answers in math. As if that's not enough, I go home and get this stupid _bullshit_ from Mom. And so that was that. All that bullshit I used to believe in, true love and soul mates and meant to be and all that stupid romantic crap. No more." She's unfolded her arms, and makes her points with short hand chops. She sighs, lowers her hands. "Maybe they were doing me a favor, I don't know . . ."

"Ahem!" James phonily and loudly clears his throat. She stops her soliloquy to look at him in confusion. "I think what ya mean is you stopped believin' in all that stupid romantic crap _until_, blam! Runnin' outta the jungle right at ya, here comes a fine specimen of perfect romantic manhood. And from that day forward," he's speaking in the story voice he uses when telling Rachel stories about farm animals and princesses, "she once again believed in true love. Amiright?"

She grins. "Well, at that very moment, no, no, I don't think that's the moment."

"So you're admittin' there was a moment?"

"Remember when you gave me that _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_? That was really special to me, James."

"Well, I aim to please." He looks so proud of himself, she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. He says, "I ever tell ya my first night ever in juvvie was Valentine's Day?"

"No, and see! This. This is why I didn't tell you before."

"Ain't sure I follow."

"My parents got freaking _divorced_, James. Cry me a river, you know? In the whole scheme of things, it's not really a big deal. I mean compared to what you . . ."

He puts his fingers to her lips. "It ain't a who-had-the-shittiest-parents competition."

"Good, because you know I hate to lose to you at anything."

"So, guess that footrace I was plannin' to challenge you to tomorrow is off, then?" He reaches out to put his hands on her waist, or, well, where here waist used to be. "I ever tell ya about the guy who got hit with the hammer?"

She shakes her head, unable to see where this is heading.

James says, "Guy's sittin' in the park, waitin' to meet his friend, when, blam! Outta nowhere, this lunatic comes up and whacks him over the head with a hammer, runs off. 'Yow!' the guy howls. Goddamn but his head hurts, you know? Anyway, 'bout five minutes later, his buddy strolls up. First guy says, 'You ain't gonna fuckin' believe this, but a guy just came outta nowhere and whacked me over the head with a hammer.' Friend says, 'Really? Some guy just came outta nowhere and whacked_ me_ over the head with a sledgehammer.'"

"OK?" Juliet says.

"Point is, just 'cause the guy's friend got hit with a sledgehammer doesn't make the first guy's head hurt any less. Look, when I was a kid, I got hit with a sledgehammer square between the eyes. And, yeah, maybe you just got pinged a bit by a hammer, but it still fuckin' hurt, didn't it? You don't gotta apologize for that."

"Thank you." She loops her hands around his neck. They sway a little bit to "Silver Bells."

"So, now I know what your deal is, I say, startin' this Valentine's, we come up with a better way to celebrate."

"What do you have in mind? I could go for Bungee jumping."

"Nah, don't think folks are crazy enough to do that yet. Motorcycle racing?"

"Deep sea diving?"

"We got some time to figure it out." They're still swaying along, even though "Jingle Bells" is a little too jaunty for the current pace. "How 'bout if I put in some more appropriate dancin' music? Maybe a little Marvin Gaye?"

She rolls her eyes. Let's get it on my (increasingly fat) ass. "Can we just stick with Christmas music tonight?" Let's get it on? Really? No, she isn't in the mood for that.

* * *

How did he do it? He didn't even use Marvin Gaye, but somehow . . . they've just gotten it on.

She really hadn't been in the mood. And yet, she read on the couch for a bit, and when she got up, the kitchen was clean . . . sticky breakfast dishes and all. And the wrapping paper got picked up, then he sat on couch, patted his lap for her feet, which he rubbed while sipping hot chocolate, and well . . . he unbuttoned the top three buttons on his flannel shirt when he picked up the wrapping paper. And the fire, and the warmth and the really really happy day . . .

So, now she's trying to catch her breath, backed up into his perfect chest, his arms around her, and . . . How'd he do it? Does it matter? What matters is that it's been a really nice, really happy, really kind of perfect Christmas. There's a blanket of snow outside, and her family is tucked in nice and warm. Even (or especially) the littlest of them, who's decided now is the time to get back to his jumping and bouncing.

James feels it, too, rubbing his hand right there (trust me, it feels a lot cooler from the outside than it does from the inside), he laughs low, kissing her neck. "Hey," he whispers. "Remember that who-had-the-shittiest-parents competition?"

"I'm not going to agree to a competition I'm sure to lose," she murmurs back.

She feels him take a deep breath. He doesn't laugh at her joke. He says, "I don't give a damn 'bout where I finish. Here's what I do care about – this one?" She feels the pressure of his fingertips on her stomach. "And that little girl down the hall? All's I care about is that they finish dead last."

"Me too" she whispers. "Me too."

_Please. Please don't let us be the world's shittiest parents. Please. _

She wonders sometimes, though. She worries. Quite frankly, she's scared shitless. They can give them a stable home, teach them manners, and educate them, and love them love them love them . .. but what the hell does it matter if what happened doesn't happen? Then what happens? Do they just disappear?

_Dear God, please let what we're giving them be enough, Amen. And, P.S., look out for Rachel and Juliet. They're in for a rough few months. _

* * *

**Believe it or not, I'm really getting towards the end. Here's the deal: there's going to be some stuff that doesn't make the story. Either it doesn't fit with the plot as I've set it up, or it's just . . .enough is enough, you know? So, here are some scenes/chapters that aren't making the cut. If you leave a review (and you can review anonymously, FYI), vote for one or two (or, heck, a top three). I'll maybe (no guarantees) publish the top vote getter at some point when this story is actually over. Or, PM me to vote if you don't want to leave a review**

**Jimmy's hockey teammate fractures his spine and Jack is the doctor and has a confrontation with Jimmy**

**Juliet tells Miles and James that they're millionaires**

**Rachel meets Anson for the first time**

**The events of the Miles chapters (Juliet's 40th birthday, miscarriage, Miles and James fight, etc.) from James and Juliet's POV**

**J&J tell Miles about Jimmy dating Kate**

**Scenes from Miles' relationship with Claudia and meeting her again in the "present'**

**Dharma: James has to help young Ben after Roger has a drunken blackout**

**Rachel hits Jimmy over the head with a candy dish while James is watching them.**

**First Christmas in Dharma (the one referenced here)**


	52. The Sex Talks

_**Thanks for all the feedback and votes from the last chapter. There's still time if you want to vote (and can do so anonymously). There seem to be two clear favorites: Miles chapters from J&J's POV, and also J&J tell Miles about Jimmy dating Kate. Me thinks you people really like Miles!**_

* * *

_**February 17, 1990**_

"Bweeee! Bweeeeeee! Chugga chugga chuggga! Aieeeee! Look out! Look out! Come in, Lando. Lando, come in!"

There's a knock at the door. Dad peers around the edge. He clears his throat. "Can I come in?" he asks.

"Sure, but don't step on. . ."

Dad yelps. "Sonofagun!" he barks, turning over his foot, and picking off some Lego blocks stuck there. He puts the Legos back on the floor. "What's all this?"

Jimmy winces apologetically. Mom's always bugging him to keep Legos away from the door. "That's supposed to be the runway."

"Runway? For what?

"For the aliens."

Dad stares at him for a second. Works his mouth up and down like fish, runs his hand over his face. "What? What did you just say? Why . . . what do you mean?"

"The Mon Calamari are coming to rescue to rebels." He holds up his Admiral Akbar figure in one hand, his Tie Fighter in the other. "Lando and his team are making the runway, but Admiral Akbar can't come if Skeletor keeps shooting lasers at it. Or if you step all over it."

"I see."

Jimmy crawls over to the door, and gathers up Lando, Skeletor, the Legos, the Thundercat guards. "I'll move it over here," he says, moving the runway, the bunkers, the guards, and Skeletor's weapons cache to the floor at the foot of his bed. Dad doesn't seem too upset about all the Legos near the door, but best to just move it anyway.

Dad clears his throat. "Hey, Calvin, you got a minute?"

"Yeah, sure. Wanna be Lando, Dad?"

"First let me talk to ya for a sec."

"OK?"

Dad sits on Jimmy's bed, pats his hand on the mattress next to him. Jimmy sits too. "Now that you're ten, or maybe over the next few years, or . . . or well, you know. . ."

Jimmy stares.

Dad clears his throat. Again. (Is he getting sick?) "So, maybe over the next few years or so, you might start thinking about girls in a different way. Like if they are pretty or smell good or something. You might end up thinking about girls a _lot_."

Right, _sure_. Jimmy stares.

Dad says, "Jimmy, do you know where babies come from?"

GROSS!

"Yeah?" Uh oh. This conversation is going in one of two directions, and neither one is good. One, Dad is getting ready to say Mom is going to have a baby. What would he do with a baby brother or sister anyway? He's ten! Ten! Waaaaaaay too old to just randomly get a little brother or sister. The other, more likely, explanation is that Dad is in here to have . . . THE TALK. Jimmy kind of wants to hide or die.

"So, then what you're tellin' me is . . . you know about . . . sex?"

Uhhhhhhhhhhh. Jimmy does NOT want to talk about this. Gross and weird and he's not entirely sure about some things, but does he really have to talk to _Dad_ about it? "Yeah, Dad, I know about it."

"Well!" Dad says, and slaps his thighs. "All right then! Glad to know." He presses his palms to the mattress, like he's going to get up. _Thank goodness! Crisis averted!_

Mom must be walking by just at that very minute 'cause Jimmy hears her cough out in the hall. Is she getting sick, too? Jimmy decides that tonight he'll actually wash his hands before dinner instead of just turning the water on to fool Mom into thinking he washed his hands.

Dad kind of glares out to the hall. He clears his throat for like the billionth time. Yes, Jimmy will definitely wash his hands before dinner tonight. Dad says, "Can I ask where you learned about it? Sex?"

"Rachel told me some about it, then I wasn't real sure about some things, so I talked with Jason about it."

"So you think Rachel and Jason are some kinda experts?"

"Uhm, not really?" And Jimmy doesn't think Dad is an expert either, so still doesn't really want to have this conversation, but he does think some things are kind of confusing, but was also sort of hoping that he'd never have any reason to need to know about it.

"Here's the thing," Dad says. "If you ever got any questions, or there are things you don't understand, you can always ask me, OK? I know it's weird and embarrassing, but better you hear it from me than some crazy nonsense kids are talkin' on the bus, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"And I 'spose there ain't anything I gotta tell you now, if you already know the basics, but just so you know, well, you know . . . you can always come to me if you need to."

"OK, Dad."

"OK."

"Uhm, Dad? Uhm, I guess, I . . . I don't really understand, like, well, Jason said, it's like. . ." Dad just said he could ask anything, and here goes. "You pee inside a girl?" That is the most horrible disgusting awful creepy thing . . . Ev-errrrrrrrrrr . . . and Jimmy is never ever _ever_ gonna do it, even if that's the only way you get to be a dad yourself. GRODY TO THE MAX.

Jimmy _swears_ he hears Mom laughing in the hall. He wonders what she's laughing at, and maybe he can escape out there where something funny is happening instead of being trapped in here talking about Sex Things (barf) with _Dad_ (double barf).

"Now, see," Dad says. "That ain't exactly right. What happens is . . ." Dad clears his throat AGAIN. Then he tells him what really happens, and what Dad tells him? . . . it's somehow less gross and way way more gross at the exact same time.

"Oh," Jimmy whispers when Dad finishes.

"You, uh, got any more questions?"

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. "Yeah. Yeah. Why . . . why would you even do that, Dad? It's _disgusting_."

Dad chuckles. "Sounds like it, doesn't it?" Jimmy nods big. Dad continues, "But, uhm, I guess why you do it is 'cause it, uhm, well, it feels really nice. And, you know, it's, uhm, well, when ya meet a girl you really like . . . " Yet another throat clearing. "When you're a lot older, I mean . . . 'Member what I was sayin' earlier? About feelin' different around girls, or noticin' them a different way? Well, once that starts happenin', you may not think it's so disgusting. And even then, it ain't the most important thing, or nothin'. Right? Most important thing is just find a girl you like and, you know, be nice to her and stuff. Then all that other stuff, _maybe_, will happen later. I don't think you gotta worry 'bout any of that stuff just yet. Just, just so you know, you can always talk to me about it if you need. OK?"

"OK. . . Dad?"

Dad winces. "Yeah?"

"You wanna be Lando now?"

Dad breathes out really really really big. "Heck, yeah, I wanna be Lando."

Jimmy wonders if Dad thinks that conversation was as embarrassing as he just did.

_**October 22, 1994**_

"B! B squared! Four A C, Two A! B! B squared! Four A C, Two A! B! B squared! Four A C, Two A!" Jimmy's sailing through his algebra homework. Ever since Mr. Trimble taught them the Quadratic Equation Cheer, algebra's been a breeze. " B! B squared! Four A C, Two A!"

There's a knock at the door. Dad peers around the edge. He clears his throat. "Can I come in?" he asks.

"Sure, just let me finish this last problem." Jimmy scratches out his answer, sets down his pencil, and looks up to Dad. Dad's carrying a volleyball-sized wad of crumpled paper. Jimmy, staring at the trash in Dad's hands, catches a glimpse of shiny red metal, and gets a sick feeling in his stomach. He looks at the back of his door. How? How did he not notice? It's the red Porsche with the hot chick on the hood.

He leaps out of his chair. "That's my poster! That's mine! I bought that! How could. . ."

Dad puts the wadded up poster on Jimmy's desk, then holds out his hands in appeasement. "Chill out, Jimbo. Chill. Your mom saw . . ."

"Mom?" Jimmy wails. "Mom did this? This is mine. This is _my stuff_. Mine! I bought that poster with my lawn mowing money. Mom can't just come in here and take whatever she likes! It's mine!"

Dad's still holding out his hands, palms down, fingers up, trying to calm Jimmy down. "I get it, son. Trust me. I get it. Why do you think I fished this outta the garbage for you?"

Jimmy clenches his jaw. He looks at Dad. Dad's unfolding the poster, smoothing out the wrinkles as best he can. Dad whistles low when he smoothes out the wrinkles over the babe on the car. "Wow, she's a looker, huh?" he asks.

Jimmy thinks Dad may be trying to trick him or something, but when he looks at Dad, it seems like he's being serious. "Yeah," he says, agreeing.

"What's her name?" Dad asks.

_How the heck should I know?_ Jimmy thinks. He shrugs.

"She like hockey? Allergic to anything? She get cold when it's breezy out? What's her birthday? She ever been to New York City?"

These are the weirdest questions ever. "How should I know?" Jimmy asks.

"Exactly." Dad nods. _Uhm, OK, Dad, whatever. _Dad says, "First off, her name's probably somethin' like Tiffani or Candi or somethin'. I'm guessin' whatever it is, it ends in an 'i.' Second, why the hell you got a poster on the back of your door of a chick you don't know nothin' about?"

_Is he __**even **__serious? Does he really want an answer? Uhm, duh, Dad, 'cause she's got big boobs, and see those little jean shorts? See how leaning over the car like that you can see the bottom of her ass hanging out? And those high heels, see how they make her calves look? Who the hell cares if she likes hockey? She's like Super Hot, and if you don't get that, well, I feel sorry for you._

Jimmy can't figure out exactly what to say, so it's good when Dad says, "Don't answer that. I know _exactly _why you got her picture on your door. And, you know what? I don't got a huge problem with that. I totally, totally get it. Thing is, whaddaya think your mom and your sister would think about you havin' a picture like that? Only point is how hot that babe is? And given as how your mom waved this around in my face this mornin', I don't even gotta guess what she thinks."

"Yeah, OK."

Dad says, "She thinks it's really impractical to work on a car with shoes like that."

Jimmy laughs, and realizes he's glad it's Dad in here talking to him. If Mom was mad? Mom like almost never gets mad. The only thing is, when she does? Get mad? YIKES. So, OK. Plus, Dad rescued the poster.

Dad looks down at the poster again. "Look, Gretzky, I don't care what you think about Candi here. Hell, I know what you think, and I also know that's completely normal, right?" Dad looks at her again, shakes his head, whistles. "I mean, she's pretty hot. So, think what you want about Candi. But you gotta have enough respect for your mom and sister at least not to just have stuff like this where they can see it."

(Is this where he mentions the poster of Marky Mark in his underwear he knows Rachel has ferreted away somewhere?) Jimmy just nods.

Dad says, "In fact, if your mother catches you with that poster again, she's gonna have my ass. Then I'm gonna have yours, understand?" Jimmy gulps. Dad continues, "Shit rolls downhill." He picks the poster off Jimmy's desk, hands it to him. "Find a place for that."

"OK, Dad. Thanks."

Dad reaches out and riffles Jimmy's hair. They look down at the poster together. "Don't worry 'bout it. I was fourteen once, too. Know all about hot girls and cars and all that stuff."

"Uhm, OK." Whatever that's supposed to mean. Candi (or whatever her name is) is like SUPER SUPER HOT. What in the world Dad thinks he knows about super-hot women, Jimmy has no clue, but he'll play along.

_**January 17, 1998**_

Jimmy's kicked back in his bed, about halfway through _The Two Towers_. He flips ahead a few pages. Almost done with this chapter. Maybe when he finishes he'll call Abby. He reads a little more. Turns the page.

There's a knock at the door. Dad peers around the edge. He clears his throat. "Can I come in?" he asks.

"Sure," Jimmy says. Dad walks in. Jimmy says, "Let me finish my chapter." He reads two more paragraphs, picks his bookmark off his bedspread, and marks his place. "What's up, Pop?"

Dad holds out a closed fist, then drops a square piece of shiny blue foil on Jimmy's bedspread. "What's that?" Dad asks.

_You mean you don't know? _"Looks like a broken shoelace," Jimmy says.

"You don't hafta be a wiseass. I'm just tryin' to get some answers from you, and I don't need this back talk, got it?" He has that mad look on his face, with the crease in the top of his nose.

Jimmy just stares at him. He says, "OK, Dad," really quietly. He'll never get why Rachel couldn't figure this out. When they were little kids, any time Dad would get mad at either one of them, Rachel just never figured out the secret. She'd get her hackles up, throw his words back in his face, fight back or whatever. And, without fail, that always made Dad even angrier. When really, it's so very very simple. If Dad is mad, just stare at him real calm, and if you need to, say "Dad," real soft. Easy as pie. Jimmy feels like he was born knowing how to do that, and it's a secret that's come in real handy.

In fact, Dad slumps his shoulders, and Jimmy can see the anger leak out. Dad says, "OK, all right. I know exactly what that is. What I wanna know is why that was in the back seat of my car."

It's a condom wrapper. _Three guesses, Dad, first two don't count._ That's the sort of thing Rachel would say. Jimmy just keeps staring. Easier than coming up with some kind of answer.

Dad crosses his arms. "I ain't angry about you usin' that thing, buddy. In fact, good. Good for you, bein' careful and whatnot. I wouldn't wanna hafta have some conversation with you 'bout unintended consequences."

_Right, Dad. I've done the math on Rachel's birthday, so you can keep your 'unintended consequences' parables to yourself. _Again, the sort of thing Rachel would say. Jimmy just stares.

"That's just the way it is, buddy, and, hey, if you think you're prepared to deal with unintended consequences, then more power to ya."

"I'm not." Hence, the condom wrapper.

"This, uh . . .this girl, uh . . . Abby, right? You like her? You serious about her?"

_Well, yeah, Dad, I like her a lot, but we're seventeen. Not like we're naming our kids or planning to get married or anything. _"Yes."

"All right, then. Good. You ever bring her flowers?"

"Yeah."

"Cause you wanted to make her happy or 'cause you wanted to get laid?"

"A little bit of both, I guess."

Dad considers that, then nods. "Thanks for bein' honest, at least." He stands there for a second or two, and Jimmy says a little prayer that this conversation is over. Dad dashes his hopes with, "I hope you ain't been makin' promises to her you can't keep."

"Uh . . . no." Jeez, Dad, we're high school seniors, not like oversexed DAs from a primetime soap opera. _What the hell kind of promises would I be making? I promise I'll share my calculus notes? I promise I'll sit with you in the next assembly?_

"Good. Good." Is Dad talking to himself? Or to Jimmy? "Listen to me, son. That's very, very important. OK?"

"OK."

"Look, you're a good-looking kid. And you got money, and play on all them sports teams. So, girls? Women? What you got to look forward to? I say, good for you. But, listen to this, and listen good. All them girls? Have a blast, but you do it for real. Honest. Don't you ever tell some girl you love her or are gonna get her tickets, or . . . or . . . or . . . hell, whatever it is you gotta tell a girl these days to get her to have sex with you. If you can't manage it without the lies, then it ain't worth gettin'. Understand me?"

"Yeah."

"I'm serious, Jimmy. For one thing, it's so much better when you're honest about it. OK? When it's just you and her, and you ain't tryin' to be any damn thing you're not. And for another, it's just plain rude. It ain't somethin' a good kid such as yourself does."

"OK, Dad."

"OK. So, flowers? Good for you. But listen, while we're on the subject? Make sure you don't forget her birthday, got it? Anniversary, too, if high school kids got that. And then, if you ever really wanna impress a girl, make her dinner. All that's honest, and there you go: three sure-fire ways to impress a lady."

Jimmy chuckles. How the heck did Dad learn all this stuff? More like find some chick that'll put up with your BS, then deal with a little bit of those unintended consequences you always try to scare me with, then go live in the suburbs and get her to make you a ton of money.

"Are you laughin' at me, boy?" Dad asks. Jimmy shakes his head. "All right. All right, but you do know I was bein' serious before? About all that . . . never make a promise you can't keep. Never."

"OK." Jimmy wonders where this is all coming from. Once upon a time, Dad told him if he ever had any questions, he could always ask. "Dad? How come . . . I mean, why . . . what . . . did you ever make a promise to Mom you couldn't keep?"

Dad laughs. "Remember how early your hockey practices used to be?" Jimmy nods. Dad says, "I once told her that I'd take you in the morning, even though it was her turn, if she . . . if we . . ."

"Yeah, got it, Dad."

"Anyway, I didn't never intend to wake up and take you. Hoped she'd forget. I'd just pretend to sleep through the alarm."

"And?"

"And, I ended up taking you in the next morning. She did that whole scary eye thing. Trust me, never volunteered that again."

Jimmy laughs. That's a kind of funny story, but early morning hockey practice carpool seems too mundane. He wonders what else Dad might have ever promised anyone.

"All right," Dad says, He points at the condom wrapper on the bed. "Smart boy, but I better never find another one of them in my car. Be nice to this girl, Jimmy, and all the ones who come after, hear me?"

"Yes, Dad." Thing is, Jimmy already totally planned to. He'd like to be like his dad, after all.

* * *

**The NEXT chapter is the one I was wah wahing about a few chapters back. And I've decided it will be from multiple POVs. That solves that. Now to actually figure out what happens. In other words . . . patience, please. Thanks, you guys are the best!**


	53. Million Dollar Baby

**KATE**

"It's gonna be fine, Sawyer. It's gonna be OK."

Sawyer rubs his face. "I puked twice today . . . 'cause of nerves. And how the hell am I supposed to sleep tonight?" He stands up, starts pacing. His nervous energy seems ferocious, almost threatening, and Kate feels the room shrink. This cozy, oak-paneled, book-filled room (she likes it here).

She tries to reassure him (again), to calm his nerves. "Seriously. It's going to be fine. What's the worst that could happen?"

He stops his pacing to bark at her, "What's the worse that could happen? Uhm, I dunno, Freckles, how 'bout she lets the cat outta the bag? How 'bout she tells someone who we are? Where . . . when . . .we came from?"

"No one would believe her," Kate points out. Utterly reasonable.

He glares down at her. "Who the fuck knows what people are gonna believe?" He throws his hands wide, shoves a stack of books off the desk in a fit of violence

All her attempts to get him to calm down, see reason . . . they all backfire. Maybe she should go get Juliet.

Two weeks ago, he called up out of the blue, and said he wanted to meet Clementine. They've spent the last two weeks planning, two weeks with Kate coming over, telling him all she knows about his daughter, her birthday, her favorite color, favorite movie. She's scared of heights, but not scared of bugs. She likes olives, but hates pickles. She thinks pink is "too girly," but has several outfits that are nothing but varying shades of lavender . . .

Tomorrow is the big day. No more putting it off. Well, tomorrow is Big Day #1. Clem's going with some friend's family to a Santa Train event. Leaves Cass's at 7:30. Kate's dropping Aaron off with a neighbor and showing up at Cass's at 7:45. There, she'll tell some version of the truth, and be over at Sawyer and Juliet's (with Cass in tow) no later than 8:45. They've got the whole thing down like some kind of military evolution, all but synchronizing their watches to ensure mission success.

Big Day #2: Meeting Clementine, only happens if Big Day #1: Spilling the Beans to Cassidy, goes well.

Seems like Kate's been over here nearly every day for the past two weeks. She used to debate which was weirder, Sawyer and Juliet the couple, or Sawyer and Juliet the old people. Two weeks ago, Sawyer and Juliet the couple was in the lead for Weirdest Thing Ever. Except, she's spent two weeks here, and it's not nearly so weird anymore. She's gotten used to it. Used to their silent conversations. Used to the flirtatious looks they exchange when they irritate each other. Used to Juliet calming him down every time he starts to freak out about what's coming.

Like now, maybe she should go get her, before Sawyer freaks out some more and starts smashing the bottles in the bar or something.

Juliet's out in the kitchen feeding Aaron his dinner. Grilled cheese cut into little triangles and broccoli with Ranch Dressing for dipping, and probably more dessert and less broccoli than Kate will approve of, but that's kind of what grandparents are for, right? Oh yeah, here's another thing that's happened over the past two weeks (amazing how your perceptions can change so much in two short weeks): Kate doesn't think Sawyer and Juliet as old people is weird anymore. Or, no. No, she does think it's weird. She's used to it is all. Besides, she's come to like how they baby and spoil Aaron.

At first she was careful to arrange her visits when Jimmy was sure to be gone. That would be weird. (Right. _That_ would be weird). Not that it really mattered. "Ain't like he's always droppin' by to hang out with dear ol' Mom and Dad anyway," said Sawyer. Jimmy's out of town or something now, so she comes by when she wants.

She came by once when that guy, Miles, was here. "So, you and Jimmy, huh?" he said with a laugh. "I used to change his diaper, you know. This your first time doing a father-son thing?"

"Knock it off, Oda Mae," Sawyer snapped at him, and if Kate's (sort of) gotten over the whole Sawyer and Juliet thing, the Sawyer and Miles thing still baffles her.

Tomorrow, though . . . tomorrow's been specifically planned to avoid any interference. Miles has some kind of charity event board meeting thing; Jimmy's out of town; their daughter has to work . . . all clear. Tomorrow's D-Day, if Sawyer doesn't completely lose his shit first.

* * *

Cassidy opens the door on the first knock. She shakes her fists at shoulder level. "I am so excited about today, Kate! Girls' day! Just what I needed. Great idea!"

"Gonna have to take a rain check on girls' day, Cass." Kate feels a little guilty. Maybe she should've thought of a less-appealing cover story. Like "On that Friday we don't have the kids, maybe we can spend the day sticking sharp sticks up our nostrils."

Kate steps inside while Cass fakes a pout and closes the front door. "Why?" she asks. "Everything OK? Is Aaron OK? Do you need . . ."

Kate throws up a hand to stop Cassidy's concern and offers of help. "I'm here to tell you the truth about Jimmy."

"All right?" Cassidy says, tentatively. "Want some coffee? Come on back to the kitchen."

Three minutes later, Kate's sitting with her hands wrapped around a warm mug. She's had this all planned out for a while now. What she's going to say, how she's going to say it, what she's going to do if Cassidy doesn't believe her, what she's going to do if she flips out.

Cassidy goes first: "So. Jimmy. What's the scoop?"

"Actually, I told you the truth once already. You just mis-heard me. Or didn't believe me or . . .well, it's understandable because the truth is a little unbelievable, but I thought that, well, you know, uh, see the thing is . . ." _Seriously._ She's had this whole thing planned out. Why is she starting to falter? "Sawyer . . . _your_ Sawyer. . . Clementine's father . . . he's Jimmy's father, too." Ugh, that didn't come out at all like she kept hearing it when she was rehearsing in her head.

Cassidy blinks a few times, narrows her eyes, and leans back in her chair. She's sizing Kate up, trying to decide whether to believe her, and it seems that she does. "My God," she finally says. "My God. I knew his childhood was bad, foster care and all that, but . . . My God. God."

Unexpected response. How does Sawyer's childhood in foster care have any bearing on any of this?

Cassidy continues, "Please tell me his mother is at least a decent age. And, so Jimmy's rich family? He was adopted?"

_What? _Kate knows she must look completely baffled.

Cassidy says, "He must have been, what? Thirteen? When Jimmy was born? Younger? That's . . . oh God, that actually makes me feel somewhat sorry for the hateful bastard."

_Oh, gotcha. Yeah, right. No, see I haven't explained the time travel bit yet. _"Remember what I told you about the Island? How it disappeared? It went back in time, and Sawyer went back with it. To 1974. Jimmy was born six years after that - in 1980." That part was rehearsed and came out exactly how she planned. Except, well, it kinda sounded _obviously _rehearsed.

Cassidy chokes on her coffee. "Kate, what the hell? You expect me to believe that? Are you _nuts_?"

_This _was the expected response. Good. Moving on to the next part of the script. "I know it's hard to believe. I didn't believe it either at first, trust me. But I can prove it to you. I can take you to him. To Sawyer. He wants to see you. He'd like to meet Clementine, if you'll let him. But let's take it one step at a time. Let me take you to him."

"How should I dress?" Cass asks. That was . . . surprisingly easy.

"Uh. . . I don't . . . I'm not really sure it matters . . . what. . . what you have on now is fine, I guess."

"Look, Kate, if you want to take me somewhere as a surprise . . . Day Spa? Movies? Beach?" Kate stares back impassively. "I wanna make sure I'm appropriately dressed."

"I'm taking you to Sawyer's house. He lives with his wife in Beverly Hills."

"Oh, he's married is he? And is she a time traveler, too?" Kate nods, frantically searching the script in her brain for what she's supposed to say (if anything) about Juliet. Cassidy doesn't give her a chance, though, saying, "And that's right - they're rich." She sounds like she's mocking Kate. She _is_ mocking Kate.

Kate says, "They made a ton of money in the stock market. Since they were from the future, I guess it came easy."

Cassidy jerks her head back, like she's avoiding a slap to the face. "That's the first thing you've said . . . it kinda sounds like . . . like something he'd think of."

Kate nods. "I hate to tell you, but all these 'good luck' things you've had going your way? The scholarship? The new car? That deal you got on this condo? Sawyer's arranged it all. Apparently, he's been paying for things since she was born."

"That's where you're wrong. He didn't want anything to do with her . . . with us . . . How'm I supposed to believe he paid for her school?" She snorts dismissively.

"I know. I know. But for him, that was nearly forty years ago. Don't you think he could've changed, even a little? "

"Forty years ago, right. Time travel, I forgot."

"What's the harm, Cass? What's the harm in letting me take you there? If I'm wrong, if I'm delusional about this whole time travel thing, then you can use this opportunity to help me get the professional psychological help I need." Sometimes late at night and half asleep, Kate starts to think that maybe she _is_ dreaming this all up, imagining things that aren't real.

"I don't know . . ."

"And if I'm right? If it really is Sawyer? Then think of it as your chance to read him the riot act. Really let him have it."

"I . . . OK. Yeah, yeah. . . I guess that would be nice."

Score one for Juliet. That "think of it as an opportunity to read him the riot act," had been her contribution to the script. "Hey, now," Sawyer had said, looking wary. To which Juliet replied, "Do you want her to come or not? She has to have an incentive, and what could be better than chewing you out?" Then he snorted and glared, and she smiled and winked at him. And Kate didn't think it was weird or icky. (Or heartbreaking. OK, maybe just a little heartbreaking.)

**SAWYER**

They're going to be here any minute – he hopes. He'd wanted Kate to call him when they were on their way, but she said she didn't want to "complicate things." _Like how fuckin' difficult is it to pick up a cellphone, Freckles? Just call me so I don't gotta pace all morning long._ But, noooooo. No, Kate thinks a simple phone call will "complicate things." (Right. _That_ will complicate things.) Goddamn that woman can be so irritating. Back in the day, the irritating was nice enough, 'cause maybe it'd lead to some sexy banter, which in turn would lead to some actual sex. Now? Now it's just plain fuckin' irritating.

He reaches out for a cinnamon roll. Juliet smacks his hand away. "Those are for when they get here," she fusses. He's done his thing, poured OJ into the crystal pitcher, put on a pot of coffee, and obsessively straightened everything on the kitchen counters.

"It's going to be OK," she says. "As long as you keep your cool. She has a lot to be angry about, no sense in giving her more for her arsenal."

"Thanks for the advice, Dr. Braniac," he mutters, itching for a fight. He's nervous and out of sorts, and, yeah, he gets why he's not allowed to provoke Cassidy, but can't he at least provoke Juliet? What's she gonna do? Throw him out of the house?

She doesn't bite. "You're welcome."

Fuck, he's jumpy, and he needs _someone_ to provoke. (Where the hell is Miles when you need him?)

He sneers at Juliet. She's always so damn calm. Except he smelled the kitchen when he got up this morning. "How many batches did it take before you got the cinnamon rolls right?"

"I burned the first two," she admits with a smile.

_All right all right all right. Deep breaths. Calm down. _

Funny how time works. Even real, normal, non-time-traveling, light-flashing, life-changing, nose-bleeding, head-pounding time. How it slows to barely a crawl when you're waiting on something great. Christmas, say, or your daughter's birth . . . time sloooooooooowwwws and minutes pass like hours, and next thing you know you're sniping at your wife and hoping that little baby girl will fucking hurry up and get here. On the other hand, time flashes by in a whoosh when you're dreading something. Your annual physical, say, or the opportunity to make things right with your _other _daughter's momma . . . time speeds by and hours pass like minutes and . . . well, next thing you know, you're sniping at your wife.

Yesterday was the worst. He tried to get breakfast down but was so damn nervous, he tossed it back up 15 minutes later. Juliet hovered outside the bathroom door, full of concern and worry, and, _thank God she's here, thank God she cares_, he thought. Except the same thing happened after lunch, Juliet hovering outside the bathroom door, full of concern and worry, and he thought, _Jesus F. Christ, does she got any idea how fucking irritating that is? Can't I just puke in peace? Ain't nothin' you can do about it anyway, so leave me the hell alone!_

The doorbell rings. They stare at each other, frozen, as if unsure what that chiming sound was, unsure how to respond. Of course, maybe it's the cleaning people. Maybe they got their days mixed up.

Juliet says, "It's going to be fine. You go right on ahead. Bring them back here. I'll be waiting." She smiles at him and squeezes his hand. Her voice is calm, her hand is steady, and he'd believe she meant it, except when she lets go of his hand, she re-stacks the plates, moves the platter of cinnamon rolls a quarter inch to the right, unfolds and refolds a cloth napkin, and takes a slug of mimosa.

"Here goes nothin'." (EVERYTHING)

* * *

He stares through the peephole. It's not the cleaning people on his front porch. No, it's Kate (looking hopeful) and Cassidy (looking skeptical). He clears his throat, puts a hand to the doorknob. Clears his throat again, twists the deadbolt. Clears his throat and opens the door.

He looks at Kate. He can't look anywhere else. Can't bring himself to look at Cassidy. He can look at Kate and remind himself things are going to work out in the end, or he can look at Cassidy and feel ashamed.

"Well, shit," Cassidy says. "Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit."

He slides his eyes over to her. "Hey, Cass, long time, no see." Is he supposed to invite them in? He opens the door wider, hoping that's enough of a hint. Kate (_thank you, Freckles, thank you_) practically shoves Cassidy inside. Cass stumbles over the threshold.

Once inside, she says, "I don't . . . uh, time travel?"

"Yeah." He winces apologetically. Although of all the things he has to apologize for, time traveling ain't one of 'em.

She stares around the foyer, her eyes landing on a framed picture of Jimmy, maybe seven, no front teeth. "Is that . . . is that . . . Jimmy?'

James gulps, nods.

Cassidy says, "All this time, huh? Kate says it's been more than thirty years. And you've just now got the balls to see me?"

"Ain't no way you're gonna believe me, but I been wantin' to make things right for forever. Nothin' I could do for a long time. Hell, what's I supposed to do in 1983, ya know?"

"Yeah, so why now? Why not a year ago? Two years?"

"I didn't want . . .thing is . . . my kids didn't know the truth about time travel and all that. Didn't know 'bout my past and stuff, and I guess I wanted to protect them long as I could."

She snorts. "Aren't you a peach? Worried about your kids, huh? That's priceless. And don't try that bullshit on me. You wanted to protect yourself. Because you're a coward, and because you only care about yourself."

"Cassidy," Kate says low, in warning.

"'S allright, Freckles," James says. "I don't deserve nothin' less." Not from Cassidy at least.

"Why don't we all go back to the kitchen?" Kate says, sticking doggedly to the script.

James waves them back. "After you," he says with exaggerated politeness. Cassidy's got her head on a swivel, and he feels a twinge of pride for his nice house, followed by a wave of guilt. Once upon a time, he took her for her life savings.

Juliet stands in the kitchen, looking overeager and hopeful and nervous behind her platter of cinnamon rolls. James says, "This is my wife. This is Juliet. And, Jules, this is Cassidy."

No one moves. Cassidy and Juliet stare, appraising each other, he guesses. Of course, Juliet met her once, seven years ago, so it's Cassidy doing most of the evaluating.

In the supercalm voice that used to creep James out, but that he now realizes masks nerves, Juliet says, "It's very nice to finally meet you." That's a double lie because it's not "very nice," it's "damn scary," and they've met before.

"Wish I could say likewise," Cassidy replies, then turns to James, dismissing Juliet outright. She says to him, "So, what? What do you want, huh? You gonna try to take my daughter away? Because you have no right. Absolutely no right." She's choking back tears. "You didn't want anything to do with her, and now, what? Because you've got money, you think you can intimidate me into something? Sic your fancy, powerful attorneys on me? How dare you? How. Dare. You." She's shaking with anger.

He throws up his hands. "No, no, no. Nothin' like that, no. I don't want anything. Nothin' you ain't comfortable with. I promise. I'd love to meet her. I really want to, but it's up to you. You gotta believe me."

"I believed you once before, and look where it got me." She shakes her head and bites her lower lip. He can tell she's trying not to cry. Not in front of him. She composes herself, then lets him have it. "God, I was such an idiot. After you sent me away? I waited around for _weeks_. Even though seventy five percent of the money in that bag was newspaper, stupid me, I thought it was some kind of mistake. I actually worried about you. I didn't know what had happened. Maybe that guy'd done something to you. Jesus, I was so scared for you. What a laugh." She shakes her head. "Hell, I wandered around forever with my whole head on pause. Tried so damn hard to not think of anything. Keep my mind one hundred percent blank, so I couldn't miss you so much. Then, guess what? Wake up call! Hello, Cassidy, you better get your head outta your ass and wake the hell up because you're pregnant. Geez, what a realization that was. And, you know what?"

She pauses like she's actually waiting for an answer. He shifts his weight and leans forward, fingertips on the center island. All this . . . it sounds kinda familiar. Where'd he hear this before? Is this what she told him in prison? Did Kate tell him this over the past two weeks? Is now where he's supposed to apologize? "I . . ." he starts.

She doesn't give him the chance. "I knew it was for the best you were gone. I _knew _it. I knew you'd reject her. Us. I . . . God, even if I knew that, in my heart of hearts, I'd still have these ridiculous stupid late-night fantasies that you'd somehow find out, or if you'd see me, or I don't even know what, but it would make everything different and we'd live happily ever after. What a joke."

This is what she's here for. To read him the riot act. He has to stand here and take it. Juliet called it her "incentive" to come. So, fine. Still, it fucking hurts to hear all that. Hurts most because it's true. Damn. _Damn._ He can't even look at her. He tries to imagine her alone, pregnant, scared, hopeful, lonely, confused. Jesus, how can anyone know what that feels like? He has to looks somewhere, so he tries Juliet , but she is studiously not looking at him. She's got her arms crossed, hands in tight fists over her forearms, and is staring at some LACMA exhibit opening postcard stuck on the refrigerator with a yellow 1970s-looking smiley face magnet. Staring so hard the postcard might catch fire if she's not careful. She looks like she's trying not to cry. And what's her problem, anyway?

Cassidy's not finished yet. "I wasn't even gonna turn you in. All you'd done, and I still couldn't bring myself to do it. Luckily, someone gave me the stones to stick up for myself, turn your sorry ass over to the authorities."

He still can't bring himself to look at her, and Juliet's still boring holes in the postcard, so he tries Kate, who seems completely absorbed in the intricacies of the key hooks hanging by the door to the garage. He's on his own. _Thanks a lot, ladies._

"I was a piece of shit," he admits. "Ain't no way around it. I can apologize till I'm blue in the face, but ain't no way to change the past. What's done is done."

**CASSIDY**

Speaking of putting things on pause, she'd like to do that right now and try to figure out exactly what's happening. Because they say "time travel," and it all adds up. He's old, but, damn, old in that way that still looks good, the goddamn sonofabitch. His wife is old. On the drive over, Cass unreasonably hoped she was prettier than his wife. Unreasonable because why the hell should she care? Unreasonable, because, well, that "time travel" thing hadn't sunk in yet. She supposes his wife is attractive, but she's . . . what? Sixty? Mid-fifties? Jimmy's in his late 20s, so, yeah, that adds up.

Time travel? Yep, it adds up. They're old, they have all this money. They have grown children. Then there's this long string of good luck Cassidy's been on ever since the hospital's insurance rep came to her in L&D and told her there'd been some kind of mix-up with her insurance, and she was entitled to an extra two night's stay and a private room. . . pretty much as soon as Clem was born, it all started pouring in, and . . . is she supposed to be _thankful_? Bow down and kiss the bastard's ring?

She says, "Well that's just great. I'm so happy to know you finally matured. Had to get old to do it, I guess. But_ you_ aren't Clementine's father, _Sawyer_ was, and it was _him_ I needed something from. And as far as I can tell, he did jack shit."

"That ain't exactly true. When he . . .I . . . was in prison, the warden came to me . . ." he glances over to his wife then, and she nods. "Anyway, warden came to me, and set up some kinda deal where I conned a fellow inmate into telling me where he'd stashed away a bunch of money. I got a cut of it. Sawyer did that, OK? That was the old me, and it's all in a trust fund in Clementine's name. She'll get it soon as she turns 21."

Cassidy is shocked. Maybe more shocked than about the whole time travel deal. She's not going to give him the pleasure though. She should be _grateful_? Fuck him. Fuck. Him. "When she's 21. That's nice. Do you have any idea what it costs to raise a goddamn kid?"

"That's why we been tryin' to get you money and things whenever we can. I do know what it costs," he says, and she wants to explode. That's right. He raised two kids. Fuck him. Fuck. Him. She's not good enough? Her daughter's not good enough? Fuck him and his kids.

"Oh, that's right. Your kids. Right. The ones you wanted to protect? From what? From me? From their little seven-year-old sister? Oooooooh. Scary. No, you wanted to protect _you_."

He nods like he's agreeing with her, slumps his shoulders like he's ashamed, and that pisses her off even more, because when did he get to be so reasonable?

She asks, "So, do they know about her? Clementine?"

He won't look at her, the cowardly bastard, so his wife (Judy? Julia?) says, "They only found out about the time travel six weeks ago."

"That's not what I asked." _Try again, Juliana._

"We want to work things out with you . . ."

_Oh for chrissake._ Cassidy interrupts. "The question is simple. Do they know about their sister?"

"No. No they don't." Whatserface uncrosses her arms and stands up straight, and damn, she kinda looks mad, but she sounds calm. "We thought we'd work things out with you first. We want to follow your lead, and if they got involved, things could get even more complicated than they already are."

And who are you, so well-spoken and attractive and reasonable? Who the hell are you? Some kind of doctor, Kate said on the car ride over. What's so damn great about you that he'd grow up and act right for _your_ kids? "So, what's your secret?" Cassidy asks her.

She looks confused (_good_), but, honestly, the question's not all that confusing. Mrs. Sawyer says, "I don't, uh . . . my secret? I . . . I'm a time traveler too? Or . . . I'm . . . I'm not sure what you're asking."

"Forget it," Cassidy snorts. She's out of things to say. She wants to fight with Sawyer, but apparently, he doesn't exist anymore, replaced by this reasonable older gentleman. She doesn't know what to say.

Kate pipes up for the first time since they got back here. "Who wants a drink?"

Julie or whoever she is hands Kate an orange juice. Or, "Mimosa," she says, and Kate slugs it down then sits at a bar stool next to the center island.

"Ahhhh!" Kate exhales, smacks her lips, and takes a cinnamon roll from a platter on the counter. Everyone else still stares uncomfortably. Two bites in, Kate says, around a mouth full of frosting and cinnamon. "Sawyer, don't you have something to give Cassidy?"

"Right, right," he says, reaching into his back pocket. He hands over a folded envelope.

She unfolds it, creased, yellowing, and rough around the edges. "CLEMENTINE" it says in neat, precise faded blue ballpoint.

"I, uh . . .I wrote that letter for her. It's, uh, it's what you said you'd like me to do for her. Never really got the chance like I'd like to, but, anyway, I wrote that . . . Jesus, more'n twenty five years ago. Kept it just in case. You read it first, and you can decide what you want to do with it."

"Tell me what you want, Sawyer," she says.

"I'd like to meet her. I'd like to get to know her. And if you ain't OK with that, then I guess I just hope you'll let me help ya out. There's that trust fund I told ya about, then I got another couple million in an account for her. We put a million in the month she was born. You're welcome to it."

The money's nice, she's not going to lie. Holy shit. If this is all true, it's going to make everything so much easier: summer camp and braces and lessons and first cars and tuition and her wedding and a down payment on her first house . . . But Cassidy's not sure a million dollars makes up for a bastard absent father.

She looks at the envelope in her hands. The paper is soft and worn, the sharp corners rounded down with age. She runs her fingers over her daughter's name, and can feel the impression left by the pen. She looks back to Sawyer, soft and worn, sharp corners rounded down with age. She feels herself giving in, and _hates_ herself for it. Despises it.

She says, "She thinks you're dead. I told her you never got to see her because you were in prison. Then you died in the plane crash. That's all I've ever said about you. Life'll be tough enough without a dad, no sense adding all the other despicable stuff on top of it. That's how I plan to leave it. My guess is she'll figure some stuff out when she gets older, but for now, that's all I want her to know. So you . . . you can't just ride in and upset the apple cart. She's seven. I don't want her life any more complicated than it already is."

"I understand," he says. "Yeah, of course. I don't want that neither."

Cassidy starts to make an offer, "Maybe we could just . . ."

"Helloooooo?" A woman's calling from the front door.

Kate leaps from her barstool. Sawyer and his wife exchange alarmed looks.

"Hello?" the voice is getting closer. The woman walks into the kitchen. "I'm on my way to work, but thought I'd drop off these tickets. If you come on Tuesday I can show you . . . uh. . ." she stops short, looking first at Kate, then to Sawyer, then to Juliet (yeah, that might be it. Juliet).

Ha! This must be their daughter. Ha! Now the tables are turned, because Cassidy's got some cards to play. This is going to be fun, and she's going to enjoy being the one to spill the beans.

She turns to look at the woman, and Cassidy's lungs squeeze tight. This woman's so familiar. Holy shit, Cassidy can't breathe. She's familiar. She's . . . she's . . . it's like looking into a crystal ball and seeing Clem all grown up. Same eyes, same nose, same expression Clem gets when she's confused. Holy shit. It hurts. It hurts to see her little girl all grown up. Slow down, time, please.

The woman's eyes linger on Kate for a bit. Then she turns to Cassidy and tilts her head just a little. She squints at her, confused. "What . . .what's going on here?" she asks.


	54. Contact

**RACHEL**

"And time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much. Are you . . . still MIIIIIINNE?"

Rachel, as she will freely admit, has a horrendous singing voice. Bad enough that she restricts her singing to solo car rides. She won't even risk singing in the shower, because there's always someone (a husband, and before that a roommate, and before that a boyfriend, and before that an annoying little brother) who'll inevitably hear you in there.

So, singing is for car rides only, and this? "Unchained Melody" with its ridiculously over-the-top pathos and wailing strings and "Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me. I'll be coming home, wait for meeeeee"? Well, it's the best variety of horrible singer car ride solos.

God, she loved this movie. What self-respecting 12 year old didn't? Love violently ended too soon and shirtless Patrick Swayze and aching, tangible grief only partly assuaged through the help of a ghost talker? All that, and pottery, too? Aw, yeah.

Now? Now, OK, it seems a bit much. And that magical, sigh-inducing kiss? Stuff of 12-year-old fantasies? Yeah, that's movie magic, because that grieving not-quite-widow was actually kissing professional seer and scam artist, one Ms. Oda Mae Brown . . .

Aaaaaaaaand . . . CLICK. Another piece of the puzzle fits into place. Dad's inexplicable nickname for Uncle Miles. It made her giggle when _Ghost_ came out. Whoopi Goldberg going by Uncle Miles' nickname, and now she knows what Uncle Miles used to be and, well, huh. Huh. This keeps happening. Guns 'N Roses, and _Ghost_, and Mom once saying something about Kimberly in a wig on _Melrose Place_. She's starting to wonder how she could've been so clueless for so long.

She turns down the sun visor to block the blinding morning sun. She sees the Dali exhibit tickets clipped there with a binder clip. She's passing Mom and Dad's neighborhood now. She's got time to make a quick drop off. Do it now before work, actually easier than dropping them off after work, when Mom will probably try to convince her to stay for dinner, and Dad will get all annoying again about Anson being on the road.

She's got the time. She puts on the blinker, turns down their street and into their driveway. Huh. Unfamiliar car here. She wonders if Uncle Miles got a new one. She grabs the tickets, hops down from the Jeep. She tests the front door, and it's unlocked, so she lets herself in.

"Helloooooo?" she calls from the foyer. No answer, but she hears voices in the kitchen, so heads back there.

"Hello?" she tries again as she approaches the kitchen. Walking in, she says, "I'm on my way to work, but thought I'd drop off these tickets. If you come on Tuesday I can show you . . . uh. . ." she stops short. Why, there is Ms. Kate Austen, looking guilty about something. _Wonder who she slept with this time, the hussy._ Not fair, not fair. She gets it now, how Kate didn't know about Dad and Jimmy, but even so. EWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

She looks over to Dad, but he looks like a whipped puppy, so she tries Mom, who looks suspiciously serene. The kind of calm she looks before she drops the hammer and tells you she knows you really weren't at the movies with Jen like you said you were. Rachel actually gets nervous even though she's 30 and, seriously . . . she can't be in trouble, right? What's going on?

She looks back to Kate. She's not as scary as Mom is. Wait. Someone else here, too. She turns to look at the woman standing across from Dad at the island. This woman's so familiar. Has Rachel met this woman somewhere? Rachel tilts her head, squints. She looks familiar. "What . . .what's going on here?" she asks.

"You must be Sawyer's daughter," the stranger says.

_Who's Sawy . . . oh, right, Dad_. "Yeah, hi. I'm Rachel, nice to meet you," she says, and reaches out her hand.

The woman shakes her hand and smiles a big Cheshire Cat grin. All she says is, "I'm Cassidy Phillips. So nice to meet you."

Everyone else looks really really awkward. Mom looking scarily serene, Dad looking like he's going to be sick, Kate with her mouth twisted and eyebrows raised. Meanwhile, this lady here looks like Rachel's a Christmas present she can't wait to unwrap.

Well, shit. Shit. "Don't tell me. You slept with Dad, too?" The stranger, Cassidy, nods. Rachel says, "Right, Dad? Huh? You slept with both of them?" She points over at Kate and Cassidy.

"Oh, sweetheart," smarms Cassidy. She clucks her tongue. "Oh, no, no, no. Me and Kate? We're just the tip of the iceberg. There's no telling how many women he's slept with."

_GUHHHHHHHROSSSSSS! Who are all these women and what the hell is wrong with them? ? ? ?_

Everyone is looking so very uncomfortable, staring at the floor, looking sick, generally the most awkward room ever, and Mom pipes up with. "She's right, but I like to think we're the Board of Directors of that larger group."

Cassidy's mouth drops open, and she turns to stare at Mom. Then she actually laughs. Kate says, "Hear, hear!" and raises a glass as a toast, and except for Dad, who's looking more than a little green around the gills, the tension seems to be draining somewhat.

Mom keeps on, "And as Chairman of the Board, I move that we sit and have breakfast."

Cassidy looks at Mom. "You're . . . funny," she says.

"I've found a sense of humor comes in handy sometimes," Mom says, and sits. She starts piling fruit on her plate. "Rachel, can you stay for breakfast?" she asks. See? Mom's always trying to feed her.

"No. No, I have to get to work, but . . . No. Stop distracting me. You," she turns to Cassidy. "Who are you? I want to know what's going on."

Cassidy looks to Mom, and Mom nods, so Cassidy turns back to Rachel. Before she starts, she digs in her purse and pulls out a school picture of a little girl. "This is my daughter, Clementine." (That's kind of a weird name. And . . . familiar). "She's seven. Her father is . . ."

Rachel snatches the picture from her before she can finish. She knows how it'll end. She looks at the picture. "Dad, is this true?"

He nods, still looking sick.

"Did you know about this?" she asks/accuses Mom.

Mom nods, still looking eerily calm.

She looks back at the picture in her hands. She should probably sit. She should, but . . . "This . . . this happened uhm, . . . before, right? Before you crashed?"

Dad nods. Has he even opened his mouth since she got in here? He looks really sad.

She reaches out to him, and squeezes his shoulder. "Oh, God, Dad, I'm so sorry. I didn't know . . . you must've missed her so much. How old was she when you crashed?"

And why is she just hearing about this now? Wouldn't this be the first thing Dad would do? Look up his daughter? Then again, it wasn't like Mom looked up her sister very first thing.

Cassidy says, "She was three, and I doubt he missed her. He never bothered to meet her."

"That's right," Dad finally speaks. "That's absolutely right."

"I . . ." Rachel looks down at the picture again. She turns it over. "Clementine, 1st grade," it reads. Clementine . . . Clementine. . . . Clementine. "Jesus!" Rachel blurts. "I met you . . . I met you! Mom, we met her" she points at Cassidy. Then she looks at her. "You borrowed my phone. In the prison parking lot. Dad!" she turns on him. "Dad! You were an asshole son of a bitch! How could you? How could you?"

Before Dad can answer, Cassidy says, "I remember you. I remember. What . . . what were you doing there?" Rachel doesn't really know, giving away money she thought at the time. She turns to Mom. Cassidy and Kate do as well.

Mom says, "When we first got sent back in time, I kept hoping there was a way to change things, so that my life wouldn't turn out how it had." Rachel rolls her eyes. _Jesus F. Christ, Mom, answer the damn question._ Mom keeps going, "But there came a time when I hoped against hope that we _couldn't_ change things, because I didn't want to lose the life I had. And then we started realizing that we needed to engineer things. Things had to happen a certain way. We gave a research grant to, well, me." She stops and looks at Kate. "We, uh, _influenced _the DA to go easy on your sentence." Kate's mouth drops open, and she looks over to Dad. Rachel sees her mouth the words "thank you," and tears spring to her eyes. Dad nods.

Mom says, "And we set it up so that Sawyer could do that favor for the warden. So he could give money to his daughter. That's why we were at the prison." She looks at Rachel. "You suggested that she show him a baby picture." Yeah, Rachel remembers. Mom says, "That's what always happened. Everything happened the way it always happened."

Dad says, "Rach, I swear to God, I wanted to do right by her. You can ask Mom. You can ask Uncle Miles. That's what we asked Kate to help us with. She and Cass are friends." He goes to sit down next to Cassidy. "I can't never make it right, I know that. You tell me what you want."

Rachel's phone rings. She looks at it. Dammit. Tania at the museum. She's supposed to meet with her in twenty five minutes. Dammit. She punches 'ignore.' "I . . . I have to go to work," she manages to choke out. How is she supposed to work? She has a sister? All her life she wanted a sister, and now she has a seven year old one? The hell?

Actually, you know what? Work. Yes, work. Things are normal there. "I have to go," she says again.

Mom says, "Sweetheart, are you OK?"

"Fine, Mom. I . . . need some time, all right? Just . . . I . . .I need to go to work." She turns on her heel and flees out the front door. She prays none of them are following her. She needs fresh air. She needs to clear her head. She needs to get to work. The UV filters on the Dali exhibit are all wrong. She needs . . . she needs someone to talk to. She needs someone to understand how absolutely off the wall this is.

She gets in the Jeep, fishes her phone out of her purse. Calls Anson. Please answer, please, please. I really need to talk to you.

"Hey, you've reached Anson Mitchell. Sorry I missed you. Leave a message."

Dammit. She slams the phone down on the passenger seat. What sort of fucking message is she supposed to leave? She takes a deep breath, backs out of the driveway.

He's still flying to Scranton, she guesses, and she's not even sure where or when his layover is. God, they'll both be so glad when this is all over. Once he's home for good, no more traveling. Then he can concentrate on what he really wants to do, which is more artsy, less photodocumenting the life of Scranton Joe Biden.

Sure, they've been joking about it for weeks, desperately trying to find the humor, and Anson says he'll be sure to stop by Schrute Farms. He says he hopes it's not too hard in Scranton. Rachel says "that's what she said." Bah dum dum. But _The Office_ humor only goes so far when the truth is, Anson's starting to hate his job, and Rachel's starting to really want him around more. Besides, you ultimately get to joking about tall, goofy, half-charming, half-irritating guys named Jim, and that's what you have little brothers for . . .

That's what you have little brothers for . . .THAT'S who's going to understand how absolutely off the wall this is . . .

She's stopped at a light. She picks the phone up again. Calls Jimmy. Please answer, please, please. I really need to talk to you. God, he's off boarding. Whenever he's off at Tahoe, he's usually on the mountain as soon as the lifts open. He's probably been out there for a few hours at least. He's not going to pick up his phone.

"What?"

He answered! Wonders never cease. Thank you. Thank you. Good morning, little brother, got some news! "Jimmy, I just left Mom and Dad's. There was a woman over there and she has a daughter. And and and and, Dad's that little girl's father! She's seven. Jimmy, we have a little sister, and . . ."

"Wait. . . What?"

"And I have to go to work, but I . . . I don't know what to do or who knows or maybe I should just go try to find Uncle Miles or . . .Maybe turn around and go back to Mom and Dad's. . ."

"No . . . no, just just . .." Oh, hell, Jimmy and his stammering. So, "No?" he thinks she shouldn't go tearing off to Uncle Miles or go back to Mom and Dad's . . no, right. She needs to go to work. She does. She does.

Jimmy says, "Hold on. Don't . . . I'll call you back." He sounds calm and collected. OK, good.

"Yeah, please. Call me. I'm going to work. Call me . . ." but she realizes he's hung up on her already. "At lunchtime," she finishes lamely, talking to the disconnected phone.

OK, good. Good. She'll go to work. Good. Thank you, Jimmy. Thanks for listening . . . and then she laughs, because she realizes that Jimmy didn't say a damn thing except a few "whats" and a "wait" and some good old-fashioned Jimmy stammering.

**JIMMY**

He paces, chewing his thumbnail, watching Lauren on the phone. He's spilled the beans . . . all of it and there's also the little sister. . . _ZOIKES! A little sister? ? ? Just out of the blue? Criminy!_ But, wait, no, one crisis at a time, please. There's that one, some little sister he's never even met and an adult sister losing her shit over it, and who knows what with Mom and Dad, but they'll get it all sorted out. They will.

So, for now, he'll focus on this **other** crisis, which is he just told Lauren his parents are time travelers (were? How does that work? It's not like they travel through time anymore. . . _Focus, Jimmy_). He explained everything, and he's pretty sure she almost, sort of, just about believes him. She's on the phone with Aunt Rachel, getting confirmation, and all Jimmy hears is a lot of "Mmm hmmms," and "uh huhs" and "OK."

He really really wants this to work, and the cross-country bit is enough of a challenge. Why throw in "Jimmy is a deluded lunatic" on top of it? She has to believe him. She has to. He really really likes her.

She hands over the phone. "She wants to talk to you."

Jimmy takes the phone. "Hey."

"OK, I hope you're happy, mister. I just blabbed the whole story, and I swear, if this gets me in trouble with your mother . . ."

"It won't. I promise. It won't. They've got bigger fish to fry anyway."

"What's that supposed mean?" she spits.

"I . . . just . . . you know . . ." Crap. What does Aunt Rachel know? Does she know about this mysterious little sister? Is he supposed to tell. Fuckin' A. All his life wishing he had a bigger family, aunts, uncles, grandparents . . .turns out it's complicated. Who knows what and who told who what and, _Jesus, Uncle Miles, you were good enough for us, man. Good enough for us._

Aunt Rachel bails him out. "You know what, Jimmy? Don't worry about it. I'm sorry to take it out on you. It's your goddamn mysterious mother. She's always been so secretive. I'm not sure why I'd expect her to be any different at 67 than 27. I'll give her a call."

"OK, thanks."

"And, Jimmy?"

"Yeah?"

"Lauren's a really good person . . ."

Crap. See? Now he has an aunt to lecture him on proper treatment of women, when he's gotten enough of that from his dad, thank you very much. He cuts her off. "Yeah! I think so too, don't worry, I'm not . . ."

"Let me finish. She's a really good person. Now, I've only just met you, but you're my dear sister's only son. You seem like a great guy, Jimmy, and I'm not just saying that. So, don't . . . tell me I'm not on speaker?"

"You're not on speaker."

"OK, tell her I told you this, and I will fly out to LA and kick your ass personally, but she's been talking a lot about quitting her job and going back for her PhD. Apparently UCLA has a really good program. Just saying."

He grins. "OK, thanks, wow. OK, that's actually really interesting."

_Maybe having an aunt isn't such a bad thing after all . . ._

He hangs up, and stares at Lauren. "So, you believe me?" he asks.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. God help me, I do." She laughs. That laugh is awesome. He could make it his ringtone. "So, now what?" she asks.

"Wanna go out for breakfast?" It's closer to lunchtime, but even so . . .

"You don't need to call home or deal with any of that?"

He waves away the suggestion and snorts. "That's all gonna still be going on when we get back from eating."

"Really? Because your sister sounded more than a little bit freaked out."

"That's just the way she is. She tends to over-react sometimes. When the thing to do is just stay calm. Things'll work their way out."

* * *

Except his phone rings midway through his stack of pecan pancakes. "Mom Cell." He holds up the screen to Lauren. "This promises to be interesting," he says. "Should I answer?" She nods.

"Hey, Mom. How's it going? Having a nice day?" he coos at the phone.

"By the tone of your voice, I'm guessing you've spoken with your sister."

"I dunno, Mom. I guess you're gonna have to be more specific. Which sister do you mean?"

"I do not need your smart mouth, young man."

"OK, sorry. Why are you calling? Where's Dad?"

"He's walking Kate and Cassidy to the car. He said go ahead and call you. Since Rachel knows, we need to tell you, too. He'll talk to you as soon as he gets back in."

"Sure, OK," so what are he and Mom supposed to talk about in the meantime? "Read any good books lately?" he snarks, wondering how long it's gonna take Dad to walk Kate and . . . and . . . what did Mom say?

"Jimmy, don't . . ."

"What did you say her name was? Dad's uhm . . ." (baby mama? ex-girlfriend? ex-_wife_?)

"Cassidy."

"I've met her. Holy shit, Mom. I . . . at Kate's. . . twice. . . I. . .I. . .I met, oh, geez, I met her daughter . . . I. . ."

"Here's Dad now!" Mom chirps, and Jimmy can hear the relief in her voice. Leave the dirty work for Dad. Fair enough, Jimmy assumes, it _is_ Dad's dirty work, after all.

"Hey, champ," Dad says. "So, what, we got scooped? Little Ms. Roberta Woodward beat us to the punch?"

Jimmy scoffs. All this to deal with, and Dad's calling Rachel by stupid nicknames. Figures. "Dad, I met her."

"I know you did."

"Oh, OK." So, what now? "She's a really great little kid, Dad. I mean, from what I can tell. God, you must really miss her."

Silence.

"Dad? You still there?"

"Yeah, yeah. Naw, I can't really miss her. I ain't never met her before."

Jimmy puzzles out the math. Dad should've crashed four years ago. That kid is way older than four. "I don't understand."

"He momma was one of them women I conned. Stole her life savings, and when I hit the road, she was already pregnant."

"Oh."

"I didn't know that, but, truth is, it wouldn't a made a difference even if I did."

"Oh." _That's a horrible, no-good, shitty, fucked-up thing to do, Dad. Didn't anyone ever tell you about treating women right and not being an asshole and not making promises you can't keep and unintended consequences and . . ._

Aaaaaaaaand . . . BLOOP. Another piece of his life slides into place. Like the backwards "L" falling down from the Tetris sky and fitting in the slot left for it. Holy fucking crap. All his life, all this weird talk of "unintended consequences," and Jimmy always thought he was talking about Mom getting pregnant with Rachel. Rachel can be a goddamn pain in the ass sometimes, but for the most part, she's pretty cool, and if by "unintended consequences" Dad meant having stick with Mom for the rest of his life, then why does he seem so happy with her all the time? It never, ever, ever added up.

_Never make a promise you can't keep. Never . . ._

Jimmy must've been in high school when Dad freaked him out with that. Ten years ago at least, and . . . life kind of makes more sense when you know all the facts.

"Jimmy? You still there?"

"Whenever you talked about 'unintended consequences,' you didn't mean Rachel."

"What I said was, you had to be prepared to deal with unintended consequence. Rachel was one I was prepared to deal with. Plus, you know, just loved your mom so much, couldn't imagine bein' without her."

That's insanely cheesy. "She's right there listening, isn't she? You're trying to brown nose."

"Little bit, yeah."

Jimmy laughs. "What now, Dad?

"Mom and me are goin' to lunch with her tomorrow, and just see how it goes. You and Rach sit tight, let us deal with this, OK? And here's another thing. Cass don't want to explain all the time travel and shit. By 'and shit,' I mean the fact I'm a thievin' bastard who's s'posed to be dead anyway. So, for now I'm a long-lost uncle, got it? That's the cover story."

Jimmy rolls his eyes. Another cover story. Great. Sure, got it, sure. "Yeah, OK, sure, Dad."

"Yeah, ain't you I gotta worry about. It's that effin' unintended consequence of a big sister you got. We'll let you know, Jimmy. When do you get back?"

"Sunday."

Not even forty eight more hours. Screw his crazy, wacked-out, time-traveling loony bin of a family. He and Lauren leave the breakfast joint. He calls Rachel, tells her it's all going to be all right. He turns off his phone, and spends the rest of his time with Lauren in bed.

**JULIET**

James slept away the afternoon, and good for him. She knows he hasn't slept well in at least a week. This morning with Cassidy, that went . . .OK. It went fine. Not the disaster he feared. Not the glorious flowers and rainbows and "welcome to your daughter's life" that absolutely no one expected. They're going to get to meet Clementine, although Cassidy made it abundantly clear that James isn't supposed to say who he really is. She can tell that hurt him, but he understands.

She spent the afternoon on the phone. Rachel called to say, "Do you know what your son's doing? And who he's doing it with?" Turns out his trip to Tahoe involves Rachel's neighbor who happens to be Anson's cousin who she vaguely remembers from the wedding. She needs to quit being surprised by how small the world can be. Rachel talks up this girl, woman, Lauren. "She's good people, Jules. You don't need to worry about her."

Miles called to ask how it went, then admitted this morning's "board meeting" was a lie. "You kidding me? If I was around, he'd of taken it all out on me. No sir, no desire to be his punching bag today."

Kate called to check in, to say that Cassidy seemed to be doing OK. A little shaken, but OK.

Juliet's made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for dinner, and is a little surprised to see Rachel's Jeep pull into the driveway. She makes a third sandwich for her daughter. They sit, mostly in silence, James and Rachel warily eyeing each other. Those two. James sprinkles Tabasco on his sandwich, hands it over to Rachel without a word. Two peas in a pod, those two. Except Rachel turns away the Tabasco. "Gives me heartburn," she says.

James shifts in his seat. "Where's Anson at tonight?"

"Don't start, Dad."

Here they go again. To Juliet's surprise, James doesn't start. To her further surprise, Rachel answers the question. "Scranton. He's in Scranton."

James reaches out and pats her hand. "He'll be home for good soon. Sorry to bring it up, sweetie. You know we wanna help him out with studio space or anything he needs for anything. . ."

"I know, Dad, but he wants to try to do it on his own."

Anson's giving up the photojournalist gig after the inauguration. Staying home, focusing on "Photography as Art." It's best to imagine "Photography as Art" in James' most sarcastic, sneering tone, because that's what he says in private. In public, to Rachel (and Anson), he's all Supportive Dad.

"You let us know, OK?"

"I will."

They walk her to the door. "I love you, Dad," she says, hugging him on the front porch. They watch until she's backed out of the driveway and driven off into the night. She never mentions Cassidy or Clementine.

"That went well," James says, voice full of awe. He shakes his head. "She's all grown up." Juliet knows he's thinking of her purple-hair, sneaking-around-behind-their-backs, cigarette-hiding days.

He says, "She's a good person," and it seems like this fact blows his mind.

* * *

Today's the day. Lunch with Clementine. James didn't throw up this morning. That's an improvement. He did call Miles to chew him out over some teensy tiny dustup over borrowed cufflinks. She thinks Miles is wise to steer clear until this all gets sorted out. She remembers Miles' nasty shiner of a quarter century ago. Never found out precisely what provoked that, but she doesn't need to know. All she needs to know is this: Miles stirs the pot, James boils over. Some things never change.

Or sometimes everything changes. This is what they've had forever: Miles stirs the pot, James and Rachel boil over, Juliet and Jimmy put a lid on it. It works. It does. It always has and always will. Or always _would_, if they didn't mess with the balance. Now they've added another Rachel who stirs the pot and sometimes boils over, too. Clementine's only seven, they can handle that, but she comes with Cassidy who's got every reason in the world to stir this particular pot.

It's a family-friendly, breakfast-all-day joint, with crayons at the table. The ambient noise is loud enough to drown out your whining daughter, or your son who doesn't get the concept of "inside voice," or you yelling at them to sit on "your bottom or your knees. Sit down! Sit DOWN!" Yeah, there was a place in Ann Arbor just like this, and she can't believe she misses those days, but she kind of does.

Cassidy and Clementine are waiting in a booth in the back corner. Cassidy looking in their direction, Clementine with her head down, busy with crayons and a coloring sheet.

James is clutching at Juliet's hand like his life (or hers) depends on it. It hurts, actually. "It's OK," she whispers to him, twisting her hand in his bone-crushing grip of death. He misses the hint. _You can let go now. _She tugs a little harder.

"Don't let go," he snaps at her.

"Ease up, then. It hurts," she whispers.

They approach the table, and Clementine looks up at them. James squeezes harder, but Juliet misses it. She misses everything. Her lungs squeeze tight and her vision blurs at the edges. Oh, God, she can't breathe. . . it's like looking into a magic mirror and seeing little girl Rachel again. Same eyes, same nose, same expression Rachel got when she was coloring. Before she got braces. Before she learned to drive, graduated from college, got married, turned thirty, got pregnant . . . OH GOD IT ALL GOES SO FAST.

Clementine smiles up at them, she looks behind them, back to them, up at her mom. She says, "Mom said Jimmy probably wasn't coming, but I colored this for him just in case." Cassidy gestures for them to sit in the booth bench on the opposite side of the table. James reaches out and takes the colored page. It's a duck wearing a t-shirt with the restaurant's logo.

The first thing James ever says to his daughter is, "I'll make sure he gets it. I bet he'll love it."

Clementine says, "Is it true? Mom says you're Jimmy's dad."

The second thing James ever says to his daughter is, "That's right. I'm Jimmy's dad."

Clementine smiles. "He's real nice."

The waitress, noticing new diners at the table, swoops in with ice waters and menus. Juliet takes a big slurp of water, temporarily relieving the dry mouth caused by the eerie feeling of staring at a little girl version of her grown-up daughter. Of course, seven-year-old Rachel never would've said Jimmy was "real nice."

Clementine says, "So, are you really my uncle? Or is that just something Mom said?"

Alarmed looks all around. James always said you can't bullshit kids, but by hook or by crook, they somehow managed to bullshit their own kids. Or was it even bullshitting?

Clementine says, "Like Kate isn't really my aunt but I call her that anyway. Mom says you're Uncle Jim, but she always said I didn't have any uncles, so you're just a fake uncle like Kate is a fake aunt, right?"

"That's right," James grins proudly at her. He's known her fall all of two minutes, but he's already proud of her smarts. _He's adorable_, Juliet thinks.

Clementine looks at Juliet. Juliet says a silent prayer that she's not freaking the kid out by staring too intensely. She's picking up the ways she's different than Rachel was. Her eyes aren't blue, for one thing. Her hair's stick straight, for another. Clementine says, "Aaron told me that Jimmy told him that you got a turtle for Jimmy when he was little." Juliet nods, and Clementine non sequitors, "Jimmy and Aunt Kate aren't going on dates anymore. Before Jimmy she lived with a doctor, but I never met him." She shrugs. "People never stay together very long, do they?" There's another way she and Rachel are different. Juliet feels her heart crack just a little.

The waitress takes their orders. The meal is kind of awkward. They can't expect a seven-year-old to carry the conversation, but what are the grown-ups supposed to talk about? _Hey, remember that time I stole all your money? Remember when I denied she was mine? Good times. _Juliet finds herself trying to fill conversational gaps, chattering on about Christmas shopping and "this time of year," and blah de blah de blah blah blah blah.

James gets blueberry pancakes, and he tells Clementine a story about Jimmy getting blueberry juice all over his hands when he was five. "He looked like a Smurf." Clementine loves the story, Cassidy glares. _Hey, remember that time I stole all your money? Remember when I denied she was mine? Then I went off and had a family I actually spent time with? Want to hear more about those days?_

Awkward.

Cassidy says, "You know, she's not normally so talkative around strangers." Juliet doesn't miss James' grimace. He's her dad, but more than that, he's a stranger.

Awkward. Juliet reminds herself that it's Clementine they're here for. Cassidy is a lost cause.

James takes the check at the end of the meal.

"Thanks," Cassidy mumbles.

"You don't gotta thank me for nothin'," he says.

She stares at him for a few seconds. She starts to speak, clamps her mouth shut. She looks over to Juliet, then back to James. She says, "Clem loves to swim. I was telling her you all have a heated pool."

The look on James' face . . . Juliet's seen it before. When she said she'd "marry" him. "Yes, yes, James. Yes." The doctor in Ann Arbor, "It's a girl!" and "My name's Juliet, and I'm going to have a baby." And, "Booyah, boys! Read 'em and weep, we're millionaires!"

James clearly can't speak, so she speaks for him. "We do have a heated pool, and we'd love to have you over some time."

"Will Jimmy be there?" Clementine asks.

James gets his voice back. "Heck yeah, he'll be there. I'll ground him till he's fifty if he doesn't come."

Clementine giggles.

* * *

They drive home in silence. It's drizzling and gray. Juliet, driving, pays attention to the road.

James finally says, "I can't decide whether to be happy 'cause she's gonna come over or sad 'cause I only just met her today."

Juliet nods, glides to a stop at a red light.

He says, "I figured out what you been thinkin' since the other day in the kitchen, starin' at that Dali postcard."

"And what's that?"

"You're thinkin', 'There but for the grace of God go I.'"

"Nope."

"Bullshit."

"I'm thinking, 'There but for the grace of God goes _Rachel_.' You conned Cassidy. I read your file, James. You were very good at what you did, and she fell for it. She has every right to be angry at you. What you did was criminal. I knew all about that. All of that and more, and still I jumped in feet first and eyes wide open. I knew who you were and took the risk anyway. If you'd left me high and dry, I'd have no one to blame but myself. Cassidy and I really don't have that much in common. Those girls, though . . .It wouldn't have been Rachel's fault that I was a stupid idiot. Just like it's not Clementine's fault that you were a thieving bastard. So it's not me I'm thinking about. What I can't stop thinking about is how lucky Rachel is. Jimmy, too, I guess. I mean, I knew from the start that we both wanted him, but if you'd have ditched me and Rachel, he wouldn't even exist."

The light turns green. She steps on the gas.

"Boy, he made an impression on Clem, didn't he?"

Juliet smiles. She can't help it. Hearing good things about her children is always wonderful.

James says, "Damn. My son's a better man than I could ever imagine bein'. Damn."

Juliet watches the road. The rain's picked up a little. She flips the wipers from intermittent to slightly less intermittent.

James says, "That's your openin' to say somethin' like that ain't true, or tell me that I am a good man or some other bullshit."

She doesn't look at him. "But it is true. What you said. He _is_ a better man. He had a better father than you could imagine. He didn't get to be who he is through luck, James. You were . . . you _are_ . . . an _amazing_ father . . . and now you get to do what you can for that little girl. Maybe she'll never know who you are, but that shouldn't stop you from trying to be there for her, for however many years you have left."

"I will," he says.

"I know you will."

**CLEMENTINE**

Here's something cool: Jimmy's mom and dad have a heated pool. So, even though it's December, you can still swim. They've got outdoor heaters and everything. It's super cool, and when school starts back in January, Clementine'll have to tell her friends.

Jimmy was this guy Aunt Kate dated. They broke up, though. "No one stays together forever," Mom says. She says that's just something that happens in fairy tales. But the good news is that Jimmy's dad is like some old friend of Mom's or something (something Clementine can NOT figure out). He is Uncle Jim. Clementine doesn't really understand that _at all_. Kate's not Mom's sister, but Clem calls her "Aunt Kate" 'cause she and Mom are such good friends. Uncle Jim isn't Mom's brother or uncle or anything, and it seems like Mom really really extremely dislikes him. (Clementine isn't ever supposed to say "hate." She's supposed to say "extremely dislikes." Like, "I extremely dislike lima beans.")

Still, though, she's gotten to come over here and swim and spend the whole day here. She's gotten to see Jimmy again, too. He's so nice to her. He makes her throw him tennis balls while he jumps off the diving board. He makes huge splashes when he lands in the water. His sister is really nice, too. Her name is Rachel. She doesn't jump in the pool and make splashes, but she let Clementine help her decorate Christmas cookies. She's married, and one time when her husband walked by, Rachel put red frosting on his nose. He said he looked like Rudolph. Rachel kissed him on his nose, and licked off the frosting. They're funny.

Mom seems to like Rachel. That's who she talks to most of the afternoon.

Jimmy's mom is Aunt Juliet. She has really pretty eyes, and a lot of times, she puts her hand on the top of Clementine's head and pats her. She makes Clementine wish she had a grandma. Mom's mom died before Clementine was born. And Clem doesn't have a father, so she doesn't know about those grandparents. Well, _of course_ she had a father, but she never met him before he died in a plane crash.

Uncle Jim is Jimmy and Rachel's dad. The one Mom extremely dislikes. Mom never says that, but Clementine can tell. She wonders why, because he's really funny, kind of like Jimmy is. He keeps calling her "Amelia Bedelia." She says "It's Clementine!," and he pretends like he forgot, and then calls her "Amelia Bedelia" again. He calls Rachel "Half Pint" like Laura from _Little House_.

Oh! Rachel is going to have a baby boy, but not till like Easter time. She says if it's OK with Mom, then maybe Clementine can come over and help her sometimes. How awesome would that be? She's gonna beg and whine until Mom says it's OK.

These people are a lot of fun, but Clementine really can't figure a lot of it out.

How come Aunt Kate stopped seeing Jimmy? Is it cause he has a new girlfriend? This afternoon he stopped playing with Clem in the pool 'cause his girlfriend called and he talked to her on the phone for a long time. Like a really really looooooong time. Grownups, even the really fun ones, can be kind of boring.

How come Mom extremely dislikes Uncle Jim? And how did she know him in the first place?

Can she come over here on Christmas Day? Mom says no. How come? Cause I said so. But she can come again after Christmas if she wants.

Uncle Jim and Aunt Juliet have lived here for thirteen years, so how come Clementine just met them three days ago?

Uncle Jim and Anson grilled hamburgers. Anson's Rachel's husband. He got here later than everyone else 'cause he is like on the news or something and had to work. When he first got here, Rachel ran up to him and put her hands on his face. He picked her up and swung her around, and they kissed really big (Clementine hopes Mom is wrong and some people get to stay together forever like in the fairy tales.)

Since they ate hamburgers, Mom says she has to wait thirty minutes before she goes in the pool again. She's waiting.

"Pssst. Clem!" It's Jimmy, and he's waving her over to the other side of the pool. She ducks down with him behind a pool chair. Jimmy says, "Can my mom see us?" Clem shakes her head. "Can your mom see us?"

Clem peeks up over the chair. Mom's sitting on a chair near the shallow end. She's talking to Rachel. Clementine ducks back down behind the chair, and says, "No," to Jimmy.

"Here then," he says, handing over a big chocolate chip cookie. Clem already had one for dessert.

She says, "I already had dessert. Mom only lets me have desserts once."

Jimmy says, "Mine too. That's why we're hiding."

"OK," she giggles.

They eat their cookies for a little bit. Anson walks by and pretends not to see them. Clementine doesn't think he'll tell on them. She's almost finished with her cookie.

"Jimmy?" she asks.

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Are you . . ." she stops. What if he says yes? Or what if he thinks she's a stupid little girl for asking such a dumb question? Oh well. "Are you my dad?" she asks. Of everything, that kind of makes a little bit of sense.

"No, Clementine. No, I'm not your dad."

"OK," she says. She is pretty good about telling when grownups are lying, and he's definitely not lying. She admits, "It was a dumb question. My dad died in a plane crash." Except _lots_ of people once thought Aunt Kate died in the same plane crash, and Clementine saw her just yesterday.

"Nah, it wasn't a dumb question. You know, I bet if he was here now, he'd be really proud of you. Especially what you told me about your reading group."

Clementine got moved to the highest reading group right before they went on Christmas vacation.

Jimmy says, "You know, you could tell _my_ dad about that. I bet he'd be proud, too."

"You think?"

"Absolutely."

Clementine looks over to where Uncle Jim is closing up the grill, stacking plates and grill tongs and stuff.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Jimmy says.

"Sure."

"If you help him clean up, I bet he'll give you even more dessert. And you don't even have to really help. Just hang out with him."

"I'll give it a try," Clementine says.

She trots over to Uncle Jim. He says, "Why it's . . . Amelia. . . wait, no, hold on, don't tell me . . . Got it! Ramona Quimby! How you doin', Ramona?"

She knows he remembers her name. He's just teasing. "How do you know about Ramona?" He's an old man. Why does an old man know about Ramona?

"Used to read 'em to Rachel when she was about your age."

That sounds fun. Mom reads to her a lot, but a lot of nights she's too tired from work and everything.

Uncle Jim says, "I bet I got some of 'em up in the attic still. Maybe if you start comin' around more, I could read 'em to you, too. I mean, uh, if you want."

She nods eagerly. Sorta 'cause she would like to read with him, but mainly because she'd like to get more dessert. She'll say what she needs to to get Uncle Jim to give her more dessert. "Yeah, that would be really cool," she says.

Uncle Jim smiles real big. He has those things in the side of his face like Jimmy does when he smiles.

"You wanna cookie, Clementine?" he asks her. She thinks it may be the first time he called her by her real name.


	55. Days of Their Lives, 8

**This is the last "Days of Their Lives" chapter.**

* * *

_**December 31, 1979**_

It's the dawn of a new decade. Decade of coke binges and _Bright Lights, Big City_ and _Less Than Zero_. And even if the hedonism of the 60s and 70s is going to come to a crushing end with AIDS and ODs and everything else, that ain't happenin' yet. Besides, far as James knows, he's one of only three people in the world who knows all that anyway. So tonight is one more depraved, drug-and-alcohol fueled celebratory sex romp.

He guesses.

He sees the girls at the "Family Planning" section at the drugstore. They've got short, short, short skirts (ain't they freezing?) and if he cocks his head just soo . . . mmmm hmmm. One catches him looking. She winks at him, waves her fingers, then reaches for a pack of condoms (smart lady). She doesn't break eye contact. _Damn, haven't lost my touch_, he thinks.

Yep, party party party party, booze, drugs, sex, rock and roll. It's a New Year's Rockin' Eve.

Here's what he, criminal, lone wolf, and ladies' man extraordinaire is doing on this night of debauchery:

First, he took all three of his ties over to his best friend's apartment. Miles doesn't have a date, but he's sweet on the new receptionist, and she's going to be at the same party he is. He watched Miles try on each tie in turn and listened while he blabbed about this girl, Claudia.

"God, Jim, it's not just that she's hot. Even though she is that, right?"

"I guess," he non-commits. She's teeny tiny, can't be more than 5'2" in heels, with those itsy bitsy hands like a bird's where you worry that you're gonna crush her bones if you shake her hand too hard. But if that's what you're in to . . .

"It's not just that, though. Like, she's fun to talk to and stuff. If she spent the night? I wouldn't even want to kick her out the next morning, you know? I mean, spend the night with her and then the whole next day, too. Can you even imagine what that would be like?"

"You'll have to let me know, 'cause it sounds great."

Miles misses the sarcasm. "How 'bout this tie?"

Not bad. "That'll do pig, that'll do."

After spending the early evening bucking up his best friend's confidence, and hoping that Miles could make it to second base at least, he set out for the drug store, where he is now.

He flirts some with the girls down the aisle, the ones ready for a night of partying. Once they wander off in a cloud of perfume, he returns his attention to the pain relievers. Children's Tylenol. That's what he's supposed to get.

Thing is, though, doesn't someone poison this shit, like soon? Don't people die from taking this? When did that happen? Where? He curses the non-invention of cell phones. Juliet would know. He stares a little longer. He gets Tylenol _and_ aspirin, hedging his bets. He strolls over to the cereal aisle. "Get some more Fruit Loops while you're out," he was instructed. Easy enough. Far as he knows, no one's poisoning that.

Up to the checkout. The women in little black dresses are waiting in the line next to him. The one who waved at him earlier bends over to adjust a shoe. James peeks. She's not wearing underwear. Damn. He turns his attention to her friend. She's _STACKED_. Double damn. He can't help but look. _Mmmmm hmmm. That's what I'm talkin' about, none of this teeny tiny birdlike petite shit Miles seems to go for. Mmmmmm hmmmm._

The chicks make eyes at him. He awkwardly juggles his Fruit Loops and aspirin and baby Tylenol, and, God help him, tucks his left hand inside his jeans pocket so they can't see his wedding ring. The girls' line moves faster than his. There's a limping, white-haired old man in front of him, trying to pay with a check.

He hears the women leaving the store, bells on the door banging up against the glass. He sets his items on the counter, pays. The ladies are waiting for him outside.

"Hey big boy, we live just around the corner. Care to help us ring in the new decade?"

His first thought?_ It would be so easy. So easy._ He could come up with at least a dozen legitimate excuses for what took him so long to get home. His second thought? Do these girls' fathers have any idea what their daughters are up to? What they're wearing? Propositioning strange men outside of drugstores? Their dads would be horrified. Just because these broads are adults, don't mean their daddies don't still worry about them.

"Thanks for the offer, ladies, but I got plans." Like go home and lock my daughter's door and never let her out of the house till she's thirty at least and only under supervision even then.

Now he's home, and now the rockin' party begins.

Juliet's at the kitchen table, which is covered in all sorts of paperwork. He kisses her on the head. "How's she doin'?"

"She's asleep. Her fever broke about an hour ago."

"I got the Tylenol anyway, but aspirin too. Remember that Tylenol scare? Wasn't sure about that."

"Good point! Don't worry, it's Chicago, and it's 1982, but . . ." She rustles through some papers, makes a note. "Johnson & Johnson. We don't want to own any of that."

"What's all this?" he asks.

"End-of-year shareholder prospectuses."

Par. Tay.

Woooooooo! It's a New Years' Eve Party at the LaFleurs! Then again, it's also gonna be the decade of_ Wall Street_ and Gordon Gekko, so . . . .

* * *

Now it's 10 PM and the party's really rockin'. He's run out of booze he's rocked it so hard. Yeah, he had one measly beer, went back to the fridge and realized . . . that's the last one. Dammit. There's no more booze in the house. Dammit. He was at the store earlier and got medicine for his daughter, Fruit Loops for his wife, and forgot more beer? What the hell? He blames the hot chicks. He was distracted. He hopes they're safe. Their poor fathers.

He's stone cold sober and watching New Year's Rockin' Eve. Juliet's taking up most of the couch. In fact, he's only got a place to sit cause she's got her feet in his lap. She's absorbed in her book.

"Cheery readin' choice, Meryl," he remarks. _Sophie's Choice. _Ay yi yi. Pick one of your kids to live? Your son to the camp? Your daughter off to the gas chamber? Ay yi yi. NO THANKS.

She's engrossed. "Mmmm. Hmmm." Turns a page. When's she gonna start to need glasses? Forty, right? That's when your eyes go to shit.

He wonders if there's any beers in the garage. That'd mean he'd hafta get up. He'll grumble all he likes about Jules takin' up the whole couch, but truth is, he kinda likes her feet in his lap. If he really had a problem with it, he'd go sit over in the recliner. He likes it here, on the couch, in this standard-issue split-level suburban home. It's warm and dry and calm, and the people here love him. He feels sorry for little boy James down in his grandparents' trailer. That place sucked. Wishes he could invite the kid up to stay for a spell. No one fights around here. No one throws shit. No one sells stuff to the pawn broker for booze money. Tonight, he remembers, there's gonna be some kind of fight outside the trailer, and it's gonna scare the shit outta him.

He turns his attention to Dick Clark. Now that guy is an ageless sonofabitch. He says as much during a commercial break. "Fuckin' Dick Clark, huh?"

No answer. She's snoring, her head tilted over, angled up against the back of the couch. Snore, snore, snore. Oh, yeah, they're kickin' it here tonight. Woo. Hoo.

He thinks of waking her. Telling her to go up to bed, her neck's going to get stiff, and she can't be comfortable like that. He plays the string out in his head, imagines the snappish remarks. "Right. It's my _neck _making me so uncomfortable." Nah, he'll let her sleep. Let sleeping pregnant ladies lie. That's a good motto.

10 . . .9 . . .8 . . .7 . . .6 . . .5 . . 4 . . . 3 . . .2 . . .1

_**January 1, 1980**_

Happy "New" Year! It's a whole "new" decade. Damn, they have so long to go. He watches the Times Square revelers.

He jostles Juliet's feet. She stirs. He slides his hand up her legs. "Hey," he whispers to her. Her eyes flutter open, just as gorgeous (more?) than they've ever been. "Happy New Year," he says, and he tries to actually sound happy about it, but, you know, it's 1980. Ain't like it's the right time or probably ever will be. He used to promise her he'd get her back to the right time. He _promised_. And yet, here they are.

She looks disoriented for a second, but recovers quickly. "Happy New Year," she says back, smiling, but not a real smile, he can tell. It doesn't reach her eyes.

He scooches over some, so that her knees are on his lap. He leans over to give her a New Years' kiss, but can't quite reach. Damn kid in the way. So, he lifts her legs, hauls himself up, then bends over, wincing, ignoring his balky knee. Twisted it again a few days ago on a patch of ice in front of the intramural field house. He braces his arm on the back of the couch.

"Try this again," he says. "Happy New Year," and a kiss.

"Happy New Year," she replies, smiling, this time almost a real smile.

That's it, he figures. Tamest New Year's ever, and he's OK with it. Except before he knows it, they're kissing again, real kissing, and breathing heavy, and he's not even sure who started it, tugging at clothes, and little noises in the back of her throat, and her fingers slipping over the top of his waistband.

And, oh, he knows exactly what this is. This is the bubble bursting. This happy little ignorant bubble they wander around in most of the time. It's all a lie. He's heard Mrs. Dawkins, from across the street, refer to them as "The LaFleurs, you know, that nice couple who live at 416. With the precious little girl?" But they aren't the LaFleurs, not really. They have fake names, fake birthdates, fake socials, and Jesus Christ, it's Nineteen Goddamn EIGHTY, and what if something happens?

What if all this investing comes crashing down, fake names and numbers and bank accounts? What if they go to jail? Or the nuthouse? "The LaFleurs, you know, that crazy couple who think they're from the future? Those poor, poor children of theirs." Or, worse, what if they do something to change it? The future, which is their past? Who the hell are they kidding? How are they going to do this? Raise these kids to be normal, don't fuck 'em up too bad? When it could all just fucking disappear if any one thing goes wrong?

But, goddamn, has her mouth always tasted this good? And she's got his fly down. If he'd known how _talented_ medically trained fingers could be, he'd of been stalking chick doctors back in the day.

He finally works her shirt off, and, shit, shit, shit, what had they been _thinking_? This new baby, Jesus, are they out of their goddamn minds? Rachel, OK, yeah, that was an accident, and he hadn't actually been, you know, thinking with his big head, but this? They did this on purpose, and oh shit, was that stupid? This poor kid, they _meant_ to do this, and how is this going to work out OK? If they get discovered? If they go away – to jail? Or the insane asylum? Or if they mess with the past/future? Then what? Oh, shit, shit, shit. I'm sorry, son . . .

He says a silent prayer to a God he hasn't believed in for more than thirty years, but who he's starting to wonder about again (Rachel's hands and ears and eyelashes are all so perfect, how can there not be . . . ). _Please keep my family safe. Please. Please let them be OK, please don't let me fuck this up. Keep them safe. I'll do anything._

It doesn't matter. Not now. She's here, they're here together, and what they're doing right now, losing themselves in each other, forgetting all that could and probably will go wrong. She gets him. Gets it. Her and Miles both do, he guesses. And WHY THE FUCK is he even bothering to think of Miles because he just got her bra off, and _that's what I'm talkin' about, MMMMMMMMMM FUCKING HMMMMMMMMMM. _And why did he even look twice at those bitches at the drugstore, cause they got nothin' on this?

It's not going to work here, like this, on the couch, the contortions they're going to have to get into just to fit, and his aching knee, but then again, how are they going to even make it upstairs? He's starting to think the floor's gonna have to do when she says, "Let's go upstairs."

* * *

After, they're facing each other, each at the edge of the bed, not entwined with each other or cuddling like normal. He says, "You ever wonder . . ."

She puts her fingers to his lips to stop him. She shakes her head. "My lower back really hurts."

"You know you could've said 'stop' at any time."

"Not what I mean. I can't do it, James. I'm so uncomfortable all the time. I can't do it. I can't celebrate every new word she learns. I can't make it through the next two months until this baby comes . . . I can't make this family with you if I wonder too much about what could happen. It would paralyze me. So, just . . . don't. Please. I prefer to live in this happy little bubble."

Exactly what he'd been thinking. Still amazes him sometimes how much she gets him, and he gets her back. And they do. They _do_ live in that happy little bubble most of the time. But he sees her get a faraway look in her eyes, he hears her voice waver sometime on 'Rachel.'

"Sorry we're still stuck in 1980," he admits. "Sorry ya can't see your sister like you want."

"It's OK. I think it's a tradeoff. If that's what fate has in store for me, then at least it might mean fate's going to protect my kids."

"Whatever happened, happened," he says.

"How are we supposed to know what happened? And what if what happens is something terrible?"

He has no clue. _Please keep my babies safe. _That's about all he can figure.

He tries to lighten the mood, joking, "You know, if what happens is we go to jail for identity fraud or white collar crime or somethin' like that, that'll be minimum security. Probably allow conjugal visits. Think I could probably handle it then. Chance to bang your brains out a few times a year."

"Or, to spend some time with me and experience the fullest expression of a man and woman's love for each other."

He snorts a laugh. He says, "Nah, like my version better." He reaches out for her, pulling her against his chest. It's all going to be OK, right? Please? Please let it be all right.

She sighs, yawns, then says, "That's the first time I've ever had sex in the 80s."

Wasn't she NINETEEN when the 80s ended? Or, no, eighteen. Even so . . . that's right . . . her teen years weren't quite as randy as his were. "Jesus, Blondie, what the hell was wrong with the boys in your high school to let you get through unscathed like that?"

"Nothing wrong with them. My dad was just very . . . well, let's say he taught me to steer well clear of boys like you."

Damn. Damn. Damn. How the hell is someone like him supposed to raise a daughter? Or a son for that matter?

_**February 13, 1980**_

He's felt off all day today. A jittery, foot-shaking unease. Not helped by being stuck at the monitors all day. No chance to walk off some of that nervous energy.

He's called home twice. This morning his call resulted in hearing Juliet's long blah blah blah about Apple going public in December and some more technogeek blah blah zippppppppppp right over his head. He hung up the phone and crossed his eyes. When he couldn't shake the unease, he called again after lunch. This time he got a harsh "What? What do you need? Why do you keep calling?" He hung up the phone and crossed his eyes. _What the hell's her problem?_

Miles joins him for the afternoon shift. He isn't there fifteen minutes before he asks, "What the hell's bothering you, man?"

James rubs his face. "Dunno. Or, not sure. Just . . ."

Miles shrugs. They sit, silently watching the monitors. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Opening Ceremonies tonight in Lake Placid. Ohhhhh, yeah, they've got a pretty penny down on the good ol' US of A to win that hockey gold. The bookie laughed and laughed at James and his southern accent. "Don't know much about hockey where you come from do they, man?"

"Not the first clue." _But I know the future, and that's gonna net me close to $25K._

"Watching the Olympics tonight?" Miles asks, breaking the silence.

James shrugs. Instead he answers the previous question. "Know what I think is botherin' me?"

"Shoot."

"Miles, how am I supposed to do this? Raise a goddamn son? I mean, Jesus F. Christ, with _me _as an example?"

Miles adjusts the brightness controls on the monitor relaying images from outside the aquatic center. He turns to James. "Thought you weren't planning to tell them anything about your past."

"We're not, but even so . . ."

The aquatic center monitor blinks off for a second. Miles pounds it with the soft side of his fist. The image returns. Miles stares for a second. The image fuzzes and sharpens in the screen. He looks to the monitor showing the Dean's office. He starts laughing to himself.

"What's so fuckin' funny?"

"You. You are. You've got such a warped image of yourself, man. You fancy yourself some kind of criminal. Lone wolf. Ladies' man. Hate to break it to you, but A, you aren't a criminal, dude." He slaps the Dean's office monitor with the palm of his hand, uses the back of his other hand to give the University seal patch on James' shoulder a pat. "You are in law enforcement. And, B, you aren't a ladies' man. You are like the most pussy-whipped guy I've ever met. 'Get me some Fruit Loops, James. Rub my feet, James. Vacuum the stairs, James. Throw rose petals at my feet when I walk, James.' Yesdearyesdearyesdearyesdear."

James scoffs. "I ain't never thrown no rose petals."

"Probably 'cause she's never asked you to. And finally, C, you're no lone wolf. Don't you mow those old people's lawn across the street from you?"

"Yeah, but . . ."

Miles runs right over him. "And who was it took Cullen's shift last Saturday so that pisser could go to his son's basketball game?"

"OK, I only did that so he'd take my shift last weekend in March. So Juliet can go to that tech seminar thing while I watch the kids."

"Which brings us back to B," Miles says, whipping his right hand through the air. "Sssssshhhhhpop. Whipped, man, whipped."

James crosses his arms tightly. "You know, there were these chicks at the drugstore on New Year's. They were all over me, and I totally coulda had a three-way with them."

"Uh huh. I seem to remember you telling me all about that. You were worried about _their dads_."

"Yeah, but, I looked. I mean, I really looked."

Miles pops him on the head. "Because you're a guy, dude. 'Cause you're a guy. If you hadn't looked, I'd of worried. But you didn't _do anything_. 'Cause you're a goddamn pussy-whipped, upstanding public fucking servant slash suburban dad. And you'll set a good example for your son, and if you don't change your ways, your biggest problem is going to be that your teenage kids are going to think you are a boring fuddy duddy. You're golden, dude. Golden. Don't worry about it."

Huh. James snorts. Maybe Miles is . . .kind of . . . right, but he's not going to admit it, and he still can't shake it. What's got him on edge?

Coming home doesn't really help. Juliet's out of sorts. Rachel's off the walls. They eat PB&J for dinner. "If you want something more, fix it yourself," Juliet practically snaps at him, then immediately apologizes. "I just don't feel like cooking. She's been unbearable today," she points over to Rachel, looking deceptively innocent.

After Rachel's in bed, Juliet not long after, James turns on the TV to watch the Opening Ceremonies. He still can't shake it. He grabs a pen and paper. One eye on the Opening Ceremonies. He starts writing a list of World Series winners, NCAA champions, all he can remember. He crumples it up, tears it to tiny pieces. Best not to let anyone see that.

The nations start marching in. The US will be last, since we're the home team this year. Round and round they go. He taps his pen on paper, and then gets this sudden urge. He knows what he has to do. What he should set right. How can he possibly be a good dad when he's already proven to be the shittiest ever?

Cassidy said he should write her a letter.

He starts (fucking help him, but when you've carried a letter around for close to thirty years, it sorta becomes a part of you),

_Dear Clementine,_

_You don't know who I am but I know who you are _

"Damn." He throws his pen across the room.

"James?" It's Juliet from the top of the stairs. Thought she was asleep.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake ya."

"I think we should probably call Miles over."

_**February 14, 1980**_

He needs to call Miles. Tell him not to tell Rachel. He wants to be the one to tell her she's a big sister. 'Course, she ain't no dummy. She probably figured out what Miles was doing there by the time Sesame Street wrapped up this morning. Juliet's zonked out, and he's got his son nestled in his arm. His son. _Please, boy, don't be like your daddy. Like your daddy __**was**__. I'll try to help ya with that, where I can._

His boy has white-blond hair sticking up all over his head, like that little cartoon boy, Calvin. Sometimes the little spots where his eyebrows are gonna be furrow up like he's worried about somethin' in his sleep, but then he sighs a teeny tiny little baby sigh and snuggles in closer to his dad's chest. It actually _hurts_ to love someone so much.

Like his big sister, he has perfect tiny lips and nostrils and fingers, and when all is said and done, maybe these two are going to be the only good things he's done his whole life.

"Think we should call Miles?" Juliet warbles from the bed.

"Thought you were asleep." He looks over, and her eyes are still closed, but she smirks at him.

"Half asleep."

He reaches for the room phone. Feels a little guilty. Miles had some big date with Claudia planned for Valentines. Their third date. Third date. THIRD date. He'd been nattering on and on about his third date all week. "Do you know what that means? Third date? Do you have any idea?"

"No, Miles. Why don't you fill us in?" Juliet had finally snapped at him. "Does it have to do with S-E-X? Tell us more, why don't you?"

Now they had to go and ruin his magical third date plans by inconveniently having this baby.

Miles picks up on the second ring. "That you guys?" he answers without saying hello.

James fills him in on the details, says he'll be home in time to put Rachel to bed, apologizes for the third date screw-up.

"Hey, no problem, man. You know what? She's actually gonna come over and help me with Rachel this afternoon. She loves kids, so I'm pretending I do, too. Besides, I talked a big game, but this third date thing wasn't inevitable. _Wasn't_. But it is now. Dude, she thinks I'm such a good guy, helping out my friends, and good with kids. Oh, yeah, I'm in like Flynn."

"Wait. You're using your relationship with _my daughter_ to impress a girl?

"Technically, your daughter and son both."

"That's fuc . . . messed up, man."

"Not all of us have the dimples. Gotta use what we can."

After he hangs up with Miles, he looks down to his boy in his arms. Men are pigs. He whispers to his son, "OK, Jimmy, first lesson, don't lie to girls. Don't tell 'em you like kids just to get in their pants. But, I'll tell ya this hint, too. Chicks do love a guy who's good with kids. So, if ya are good with 'em, play it up. Chicks eat that up."

"What kind of nonsense are you telling my son?" Juliet mumbles.

"Just tryin' to start him out right. Give him some tips on girls."

She rolls her eyes. "Strip checkers," she murmurs. "Tell him about strip checkers." Her eyelids flutter and close again, back to sleep.

He whispers to his son, "Don't listen to her. She don't know what she's talkin' about."


	56. Consequences

**This picks up more or less where Ch 49 left off. It gets a bit steamy, fair warning. Also, I wrote most of this during what has to be the world's longest layover in the St. Louis airport, so pardon any typos or whatnot. I think I went through it enough times to catch most of them.**

* * *

This is probably the worst (or best) decision she's ever made, but she guesses it doesn't matter anymore. Decision made, now time to live the rest of her life with the consequences. She's paralyzed with indecision, though. She was on autopilot for the morning; alarm, shower, coffee, wake Aaron, dress him, breakfast, cartoons, hop in the car, drop him at school. And now? What's she supposed to do now? Just keep staring at the school entrance through her windshield?

Have they left yet? That flight's today, right? Does Jack really think they can make it back? _Really?_ When (if ever) is she going to hear how that ended up? Is he going to show up at her door in a week, again unshaven and unsteady? Or never again, so that she spends her life wondering about him like she already does with Sawyer?

Who's that? Pulling in behind her? _Directly_ behind her. She stares in the rearview mirror. She ducks down in her seat, keeps her sunglasses on. What if it's Ben? Or one of his minions? They could take her now, while Aaron's in his class. What if there's still time for them to get her on the plane?

The driver's door to the mystery car opens. It's a woman. She looks familiar . . . could she be an Other? Someone she recognizes from the Island? Maybe-Other woman walks around the front of her car, Kate ducks further down in the seat. Maybe-Other woman opens the back door on her car's right side. She is sooooooo familiar. Who is she? Juliet's about the only one of Them she can remember, and even her not all that clearly.

A little girl hops out of the Maybe-Other car. Addison. Kate recognizes her from Aaron's class. And the woman? Addison's mom. Erin, Kate thinks her name is. Not an Other. Erin grabs Addison's hand, pulling her along. Kate hears Erin fussing about being late to school. She watches them go up the steps and into the building.

Kate exhales. Did she really just sit here freaking out while a suburban mom rushed her preschooler in late to school? Is this what her life's come to? She's better than this. If she keeps acting like this, They (he? Ben?) will win.

This decision to stay - she made it herself. It was her decision and hers alone. It was maybe probably a stupid decision, but now she has to get on with life, and live with the consequences. She can't stay hunched in her driver's seat forever. She'll get coffee. She'll get coffee and wait till she needs to pick Aaron up. That's today. That's step one in the first day of the rest of her life.

* * *

So, this is probably the worst (or best) decision she's ever made, but she guesses it doesn't matter anymore. Decision made, now time to live with the consequences. For a second, she's paralyzed at his front door. He wouldn't have heard her walk onto the porch. The rain still drowns out all but the loudest sounds. She lifts her hand to knock, but holds it at the door for a second. She takes a deep breath. She raps loudly on the door.

He opens right away, as though he was waiting. He knew she'd cave. He opens the door wide and waves her in. He smiles a big smile, but doesn't say anything. She turns to him, and they stare at each other for a few seconds. Time to apologize? Say it was a mistake? What do they do now?

"Wanna drink?" he asks. She gulps, nods, and he scurries off to the kitchen, looking relieved to have something to do.

He comes back with two beers. They pop the tops. She lifts her can. He bumps it with the bottom of his can. "Cheers," he says. She nods.

"Checkers?" she asks.

"Yeah, yeah, over here."

They set up the board without speaking. She takes red, he takes black. They used to play all the time when they first got here. They'd play while talking in low tones about plans for looking for their people, getting Daniel out of here, getting into Dharma for good. Checkers takes little thought, and they'd play, sometimes right out in the open on a picnic table, all the while planning their infiltration of the Dharma Initiative.

They haven't played in forever, though. It's only a two-player game, and these days they only play board games when Miles and Jin are around.

When it's only the two of them, they tend to read or talk or drink or sit in silence. She thinks silence would be too awkward now. Not that they're talking, but they are occupied with the game. They rush through several rounds, slapping down their checkers, move, move, move, king me, move, move, king me, she wins. Move, move, move, king me, move, king me, move, move, move, move,_ he_ wins. They're like the old guys in the park playing speed chess, only missing the timer clock to slap at the end of each turn.

They've probably played ten games in half an hour. James clears his throat. "Care to make this interesting?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "I don't have any money."

"I don't mean bet. I mean . . ." he clears his throat (again). He's not coming down with something, is he? "Wanna play strip checkers?"

"Strip checkers?" Now she's heard it all.

"Yeah. Every time you lose, you remove an article of clothing."

She's putting her pieces back on the board to start the next round. She stares at him, looking to see if maybe he's kidding. He's not. He hasn't put any of his pieces back on the board yet. She finishes lining hers up. He sighs, looking disappointed, then starts to put his checkers in their squares.

Really? Is this what they've resorted to? After spending close to a year telling each other everything? They can't say what it is they really want to do? They have to resort to (eyeroll) strip checkers? Aren't they adults? Can't she just say, "Why don't we skip the checkers part?"

"All right," she says. "I'm in. Strip checkers."

He grins. Her stomach does a flip flop. Damn. Maybe she should just make a move on him now.

He rubs his palms together. "All right, Blondie. Prepare to lose it all, 'cause now I'm playin' for keeps."

She laughs. It's good to hear him joking again. She wouldn't have guessed that agreeing to remove articles of clothing would be what finally puts her at ease.

* * *

They've gone through six more rounds. They're evenly matched, so to no one's surprise, she's won three times, and he's won three times. Even Stevens. Except, she's (mostly) still dressed. Every time she's lost, she's made a big, flirty show of removing an article of clothing before pulling off something innocuous. So, she's got a little pile at her feet – watch, bandana, one flip-flop. When she took off her watch, she mimicked a sexy striptease, then held the watch by her thumb and index fingers and waggled it before dropping it on the bandana already on the floor. It made him groan. Because, otherwise, she's still fully dressed.

He's taken a different tack. In his pile is a shirt, belt, and jeans. He's sitting shirtless, in his boxers, with his watch still strapped to his wrist and a sock on each foot. Maybe it's because he's more blatantly sexual than she is, or maybe it's because he's more competitive - she's suddenly having difficulty concentrating on the game. Not with him practically naked like that.

"King me!" he crows, and she has to tear her eyes from the dip in his chest between his pectorals, adding another question to her long list: What would it feel like to sleep with her head right there? And also: What would his voice sound like with her ear pressed to his chest like that? "Ahem! King me!" he says again. She does. "Like the view?" he taunts.

"Seen it before," she says, hoping her voice sounds nonchalant. He smiles a crooked smile, so that only the dimple on the right side of his face appears. So, no, he didn't buy her nonchalance.

She jumps a black checker, pulling his piece from the board. He puts his chin in his hand, mulling over his next move. While he thinks, she takes the opportunity to stare at his flexed bicep. Another question: If she nibbled that, then licked it, what would he do?

And why's it taking him so long to figure out what piece to move? Oh. He's watching her again. Caught looking. He makes a move, jumping three of her pieces. She decides to do a better job concentrating, but it's too late. Three turns later, and he's won.

"Better get to pulling that other flip-flop off, Braniac," he says.

She reaches down to slide it off. She's got it halfway off her foot. Wait a minute. Two can play at this game. _Wanna try to play distracted, James? Up to the challenge?_ She stares at him for a second, bold, but nervous too. Here goes nothing. She takes off her shirt, locks eyes with him. He doesn't break eye contact. It's a challenge, and he's going to meet it. He's not looking, and his eyes start twinkling like he knows he's supposed to look, but he's not going to give her the satisfaction.

She starts putting her pieces back on the board. She glances up at him every so often, hoping to catch him looking, but each time she looks, he is steadily, defiantly looking her directly in the eyes.

The game has gotten very serious, very competitive. She's not going to let him beat her at this. If he can play without looking at her chest, then she sure as hell can do the same. She's going to win this game, dammit. Except, what 'game,' exactly, does she mean?

She ponders her next move very carefully. She sets her forearms on the table and looks over the board. She considers one move, thinks how he'll respond, then how she'll respond after that. Hmmm. She sees another jump to make, thinks about how that will play out, thinks on another. When she finally makes a move, she keeps her eyes on the board for a second longer, still unsure if it was the best move to make.

She realizes he hasn't responded, hasn't made a move, hasn't said a word. She looks up, but he's no longer looking her in the eye. Nope. Finally, _finally_, he's let his gaze drift south. Ha. She won.

"Your move," she says triumphantly.

"Uh." He hasn't shifted his gaze. "Uh, what?"

"Earth to James. Checkers." She snaps her fingers in front of his face, and he looks at the board, moves the piece nearest him, and stares at her chest again. She's relieved she's still wearing a bra, and she can't decide if she's self-conscious or proud. With him distracted as he is, it takes only a few minutes for her to win again.

"Strip, cowboy," she leers at him. She wonders if now he'll take off his watch or one of his socks. Surely not his boxer shorts, right?

He looks her in the eye again and shakes his head. He pushes away the checkers board. "What the hell are we doing?" he asks.

"I thought . . ." she starts, and her brain fills with excuses, ways to save face. _I was just seeing how far to play this out, a game of chicken, __**of course **__we aren't actually going to get __**naked**__. _When what she really thought (hoped?) was that they could play a few more rounds until there were no more excuses, because she's lonely, because she's horny, because she's comfortable with him, because she's thirty-three goddamn years old and she shouldn't need to play _strip checkers_ of all things to get a man in bed.

"I mean, ain't we adults? And, listen, don't take this the wrong way or nothin', but, Blondie, you're hot. So, I don't get why we gotta keep up this stupid charade. Strip checkers? Give me a fuckin' break."

_I couldn't agree more. _What she says, though, after her mouth goes completely dry, is something along the lines of "Ctthhhhhh." But she's nodding, so maybe he gets the point.

And with that, he stands up, and pulls down his boxers.

"Oh!" She says, in surprise. That was sudden. "Oh," she says, when she gets a nice, long look. _Will that even fit?_ She wonders, sure that it will. "Wow," she finally concludes. She's not surprised at its size. Something about the way he carries himself conveyed that information a long time ago. No, what surprises her is how . . . attractive she thinks it is.

She's always been attracted to men, but not particularly to the, uhm, thing that makes them male. She has a thing for strong necks, for long fingers, for muscled forearms, for quick intelligence, for deep voices . . . but the male body as a whole? Never before. It's always just been the thing, that, while it might feel nice if used properly, is just kind of . . . hanging there (or not hanging), and up close and personal, quite frankly, she's always found them sort of . . . horrifying. Or, well, not, maybe not _horrifying_ exactly, but just a piece of equipment to get the job done.

But, God, he's beautiful. All of him is. He's perfect. Or, it's just been a really, really reallllllly long time. Or, there's something about him. It's him, and she's never been up close and personal with someone she simply . . . likes . . . so much. She's been with men she's loved, and she's been with men she's tolerated, and she's been with men who she liked enough to go through with it. But she's never just plain old _liked_ someone as much as she likes James. All of him, as it turns out.

And how long has she been staring? Only a few seconds, but it seems like a few minutes at least, and she tears her eyes away to look him in the eyes. _Do you have any idea how much I like you? _She thinks, but her voice doesn't seem to be working.

He reaches down a hand. She takes it, and he pulls her to standing. She steps forward to embrace him, but he holds her off. He reaches behind her back. He's unhooking her bra, and she's not going to be nervous or weird or self-conscious about this. She's not.

As it happens, her bra falls neatly onto the little bandana/watch/flip-flop/t-shirt pile.

"Wow, yourself," he murmurs.

It's still pouring outside. Incessant drumming on the roof, the windows. Dim, watery light. They keep staring. They've been dancing around this for almost a year now. Even before they realized what they were dancing around. She knew what was going to happen the minute she decided to come over here. It was her decision and hers alone. It was maybe probably a stupid decision, but there's no stopping it now. They've crossed the line, and even if she puts her shirt back on and flees the house, it's too late. They've gone too far already. They can't stand staring at each other forever.

Time to face the consequences of her actions.

She steps closer. This time he lets her. She puts a hand to the back of his neck, and pulls him to her. That's step one this new (ill-conceived?) relationship with her best friend.

He tastes like beer only a little bit. Otherwise he tastes like he smells - manly, there's just no other way to describe it. Manly. God, he's so very, very manly. He's groaning into her mouth.

He moves to kiss the side of her mouth and her chin. She allows her head to fall back, giving him full access to her neck, her throat, lower . . .He puts his hands on her hips, and she realizes she's still wearing her jeans. He moves his hands to the front of her jeans, pushing her back a little, into the table. The checkers board slides off the table, and onto her discarded clothing pile.

They take a second to laugh, but only a second. He starts kissing her again.

She's taking backward steps down the hall. Her hands frame his face, and it would be a lot easier to get to the bedroom if they'd let go of each other, but somehow letting go of him seems like the worst idea ever. In fact, she takes her hands from his face, and reaches down to hold him, and he just feels so good. Or maybe what feels so good is the power she feels over him, holding him so intimately like this.

"Leggo my Eggo," he grits against her ear. "Leggo, God, please," he moans. She complies. He picks her up like she weighs nothing and carries her to his bed.

* * *

Over the course of the afternoon, most of her questions get answered. His whiskers on her inner thigh feel rough. The friction they generate are a delicious contrast to his soft tongue.

She's rubbed those little hip knobs with her thumb, with her fingers, with her nose, with her tongue, and he reacts differently each time, depending on how much pressure she uses, how aroused he is, how fast she moves.

She can't still see his forearms when she's on top of him, because he keeps his hands around her waist, on her lower back, so he can control how fast she moves, and so he can flip her on her back when he wants. She lets him.

When she nibbles on his bicep he grunts, but maybe that's only because she chooses to do it at the exact moment he's releasing himself into her. Or, more accurately, into the Dharma Initiative-branded condom he pulled out of his bedside table._ Please, please, please, oh God, please, let those things work. PLEASE. _That is a consequence she CANNOT deal with.

When she rests her head in the center of his chest, she feels safe. Or maybe that's post coital bliss, because that safe feeling starts to fade as her breath (and his) evens out, as she starts to come down from her high and think about what they just did.

Shit. He's her best friend (or was?). She's never been very good at romantic relationships, and she doesn't want to lose her best friend only because she's a great big giant doofus when it comes to affairs of the heart. NO. She won't. She won't. _This_ is sex. And _that _is friendship, and she will keep them separate. She WILL. She will. This is just casual sex, and she will keep it that way for as long as she needs to. Casual. For the next few weeks or months or however long this lasts, she can wait it out. It will stay casual for as long as it has to. It will. It will. It will.

"It's OK, Blondie," James says. How does his voice sound with her ear pressed to his chest? Soothing and deep and thrilling and perfect (which, incidentally, also answers the question of how he felt when he was inside of her).

"Hmmm?" she buys time. So, he can tell she's worried, can he?

"Don't worry," he says. Yes, he can tell. "You're gonna tell your grandkids about me one day."

What the heck is that supposed to mean? _Grandkids? _Where the hell are _they_ supposed to come from? Doesn't he realize she's already thirty three? She better get a move on if she's gonna have grandkids one day. Except, hello? In case he's forgotten, it's _**1975**_, so that's a no-go. And besides, if she could manage to get back to the right time, meet someone, start a family . . . why on God's green earth would she ever tell them about _James_? Because for one thing, grandkids aren't going to want to hear about grandma's casual sex fling, and besides, she might just want to keep this memory private.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks him.

He sighs heavily. "Look, I realize I oversold that whole 'two weeks' thing . . ." he trails off. "I guess I mean . . . It's John Locke we're talkin' about right?"

Uhm. NO. No. What in the last few hours could possibly put him in mind of _John Locke_?

"He'll figure somethin' out. He'll get us outta here. I know it. And listen, no matter what happens, me and you's always gonna be friends. So, I guess what I mean is that after he gets us outta here, you're only gonna think of me fondly, I promise. Time'll pass, and maybe you'll think of me less and less, but one day, it's gonna be like, I dunno, 2050 or some shit like that, and your grandkids are gonna be totally absorbed in their flyin' cars and holograph machines and whatnot, and rollin' their eyes at Grammy, boring, old Grammy, and you're gonna get to say that once upon a time travel, you bedded a bad boy."

"I'm not sure that's the sort of thing they'd care to hear."

"I promise you I'll get you back to your right time. I promise. And you and me are gonna stay friends."

"Don't. Please. Please don't make promises to me you can't keep." She's had more than enough of that from every man she's ever been with.

He doesn't respond right away. He flips her onto her back. He feels so good on top of her. He kisses her. She says a silent thank you that he's taking her seriously. She can't deal with more broken promises. He stops kissing, and pulls back to say, "I promise you, you and me will always be friends."

It's not lost on her that this time he doesn't promise to get her back to the right time.

It's still raining, but it's stopped pouring. She can feel that he's ready for another go-round. She's glad. She's sure they can have casual sex, and she's sure they can still be friends. It's just this in-between, lying-in-bed-naked time that seems a little dangerous to her.

* * *

Kate pulls out of the preschool parking lot. She can do this. She's made the right choice. Right? Coffee shop? Right. Or airport? No, no coffee.

* * *

He asks, but she doesn't spend the night. That seems like a big step, and besides, "If I stayed much longer, I'm not sure I'll be able to walk tomorrow." She dresses, and leaves through the front door.

On the way out she notices a pile of notebooks on the couch. Were those there before? Probably. She'd been a little addled before. She dashes back through the rain, waves to Miles sitting in the gazebo.

"If you're waiting for the rain to stop, Miles, you may be waiting a long while."

He just stares at her with his mouth hanging open, like she's speaking to him in Latin.

She's so lonely in bed that night. Screw one step too far. She stays the night with James the next night.

* * *

Kate pulls up at her favorite coffee shop.

CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. PARDON THE INCONVENIENCE. –Mgmt.

Dammit. She punches her steering wheel. Her first step in her new life, and this? Certainly this is some kind of sign. Maybe she should turn the car around and go to the airport. She still has time. She can call someone to tell them about Aaron and Mrs. Littleton. She can call Sun . . or, no . . . Sun's gone.

No. No. No. No. There's another coffee place around the corner.

* * *

Three nights later and they're back to their old ways, reading on the couch. See? They can do this. Except her book is more than a little tedious, and James looks so delicious with his glasses on the end of his nose.

"Hell, I'm bored," she declares, slamming her book shut.

* * *

Kate circles the block, looking for a parking spot. Her new life isn't off to such a great start. She can't find any place to park, and she's not paying. If she has to pay, she may as well turn around and go home. Or to the airport. There's still time.

A car pulls out right in front of her destination. Well, OK. She pulls into the space.

* * *

Four months later, she moves the rest of her things out of Eleanor's house. She's only slept here twice in the last four months, both on nights James had to work overnight.

She may be moving in, but she's still doing a good job of keeping it casual. If John Locke came back today, she'd be home in a heartbeat. She'd say hello to Rachel, and goodbye to James. She would always think of him fondly. He'd been right about that.

* * *

She gets out of the car. She wonders about the flight. Jack had left a message with the details, but it's not like she committed it to memory. Have they left for good? Is this how her whole life is going to go?

* * *

Three months after she moves in, she's lying half awake on a Sunday morning. She keeps promising herself she's going to get up and get going, but keeps drifting back to sleep.

"I love you," he says quietly. She pretends she's asleep. She doesn't know how to respond. And how is that keeping it casual? It's not. Not at all. She's thrilled but angry too. Casual. This is supposed to be casual.

Three days later, she admits she heard him. She says, "I love you back," and it isn't casual, but it is the truth.

* * *

She waits in line. If she'd known how much a pain in the ass this single cup of coffee was going to be, she'd have . . . she'd have, what? What would she have done? Stayed at Aaron's school, skulking in the parking lot? Maybe she really would have gone to the airport. Maybe she still can.

* * *

One year and six months after they admit they love each other, they have sex on the hood of a Jeep. Ha! Now _that's_ keeping it casual. She's sort of, kind of, proud of herself for doing something so reckless. Besides, not everything has to be Big! Important! And Meaningful!

* * *

She waits to place her order at the coffee shop. Her phone rings from the depths of her bag. Fishing it out, she has a minor panic attack. Who is it going to be? Aaron's school? Is he OK? Is everything all right? Or Jack? Does he really think he can go back? Or Sun? Those lawyers? She gets the phone, doesn't recognize the number, but does recognize the area code: It's her mother calling. She punches "ignore." Or, shit. What if it's not her mother? What if it's a doctor? Has Diane taken a turn for the worse? Died? And if so, does Kate care?

She throws her phone back in her bag, misses. The phone crashes to the floor, and when she stoops to retrieve it, the bag spills most of the rest of its contents: juicebox, crayons, wallet, sunglasses. She's fighting tears, squatting on the floor, snatching up the items, as if all this is their fault.

* * *

Six months after Juliet and James have sex on the hood of a Jeep, Miles forces them to get fake married. So much for keeping it casual.

* * *

She's stuffing things into her bag. The guy in line behind her uses the opportunity to cut in front of her, as does the woman behind him. _Thanks a lot, assholes. Were you folks raised in a barn? The nerve of some people! Doesn't anyone have manners?_

She should've gone back with them. No doubt. There may even still be time. She's frustrated, tired, and angry. And people are just rude. Screw them, screw the world, screw it all. She's going to rush to the airport. She's going to go back.

* * *

One year and five months after he got fake-married, James puts Marvin Gaye on the record player. He tells her he wants to dance, but she knows it'll go further than that. They have sex in their La-Z-Boy. This would be considered casual, she thinks, if they did it for some reason other than fear of waking up their napping daughter if they risked going to the back of the apartment.

* * *

"Looks like you could use a hand."

Kate realizes someone's squatting on the floor next to her, handing over a mostly smushed Apollo bar. She mumbles thanks and takes the candy bar while she finishes shoving things in her bag.

Now, there. Finally! someone with manners and decency. Maybe she made the right choice after all. Think about it, if she left Aaron behind, maybe he'd turn into one of those assholes who used her bag spill as a way to get ahead in line, instead of someone polite like this guy.

_Thank you, sir. Thank you. Considerate and decent people DO exist. I'm staying here. Yes. Yes, I am._

* * *

One year and two months after Jimmy ran into Kate at the coffee shop . . . and thirty three years and eight months after James and Juliet played strip checkers, Juliet is busy getting ready for a houseful of guests. It's James' big 70th birthday shindig.

Jimmy's with Rachel and Julian, showing them the Observatory, but she expects them back any minute. Surprise of surprises, Rachel and Anson show up early. They've got 4D ultrasound pictures to share. They didn't have these before her kids were born. She sits at the table, looking at her grandson's precious little face. He looks so . . . real. She runs her fingertips over the photo. "Hey there, little guy," she says.

James walks into the kitchen.

"James, look," she whispers through a lump in her throat, handing over the photos.

He takes them, and sits immediately, like his legs don't quite work right. He puts his hand to his mouth. "These are amazing, sweetheart," he says to Rachel, standing to give her a hug. He starts to shake Anson's hand, but hugs him, too, with a few manly claps on the back, just so no one gets the wrong idea. Rachel turns to Juliet and rolls her eyes.

Then James leans over to Juliet and whispers in her ear, "See, what'd I tell ya? I promised, didn't I?"

It takes her a second to figure out what he means. When she gets it, she whispers back, "Yeah, but you also said something about flying cars and holograph machines."

* * *

**Two chapters left . . .**


	57. Seventy Candles

**So, I decided to split this into two chapters. So, I LIED. NOW, there's two chapters to go.**

* * *

It's Dad's 70th birthday, and there's a bunch of people here to celebrate. Dad wants it to be low-key, and said to keep it to "family only." All Jimmy's life, any "family only" event meant that Uncle Miles would trot over to the house, maybe with a woman in tow, maybe not. That makes tonight weird because there are a _bunch_ of people here. Another weird thing is there could actually be _more_ people here. Some invitees chose not to come.

Lauren, for instance, said she couldn't afford to fly back across the country again, especially since she came in February to meet with the program director at UCLA (and extended her trip to stay through Jimmy's 29th birthday). Jimmy said he'd pay for her tickets, but she wouldn't let him. She'll find out in May if she's accepted, and if she's coming out here for good. He's already thinking he'll ask her to move in with him.

Kate and Aaron were here, but didn't stay for long. Kate gave Dad a gift and said it was the sort of thing "a rich gentleman like yourself needs." It was some kind of fancy, secure briefcase. She told him she couldn't find the key, and Dad laughed. As she left, she said she was kidding, gave Dad a key, hugged him, and said "Happy Birthday, James."

Jimmy walked her to her car and said again that he was sorry how things worked out. She shrugged and said "I think things worked out the way they were supposed to." He guesses she's right . . . if they hadn't met, then he wouldn't have found out the truth about his parents, then he wouldn't have gone to Miami to meet Aunt Rachel, then he wouldn't have reconnected with Lauren . . . Sometimes things just work out how they're supposed to.

Cassidy and Clementine were invited, but didn't come. Dad is doing a poor job hiding his disappointment. Clem's been over to visit a bunch of times, but Cass hasn't let her come on holidays or special events, and a lot of times, says she's going to bring her, but backs out at the last minute. Jimmy's pretty sure she does that on purpose, and sometimes thinks, _what a bitch_. But when he thinks about it harder, he has to say it's pretty impressive that she lets Clem come over at all.

They did send cards. Clementine's is to "Uncle Jim" with lots of rainbows and a swimming pool she drew. Cassidy's is one of those "RIP! You're 70! ! !" cards with a vulture sitting on a tombstone. When he opened the card, Dad said, "Ain't sure whether this is supposed to be a joke or a hint."

Five minutes later, he opened Mom's card, which had the same "RIP You're 70! ! !" vulture and tombstone on it. Dad waved it around, and everyone had a good laugh. "Y'all plan this?" he asked. Mom said, "No, and don't worry, it's definitely a joke," and put her head on his shoulder, smiling and patting his thigh.

The old standbys are here, of course. Uncle Miles, who says this is it - "Now that you're seventy, we can't be friends anymore. You're too old." Jimmy remembers Uncle Miles making this 'joke' when Dad turned 50 and again when he turned 60. Mom says he also made it when Dad turned 40.

Then, obviously, Rachel's here. She's playing the pregnancy card to the hilt, not helping with anything, so that Jimmy gets stuck clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, bringing in extra chairs, refilling the ice bucket. It's no surprise she's trying to get out of work - she's tried to get out of things as long as Jimmy's known her (his whole life). It_ is_ a surprise Mom's letting her get away with it. Jimmy complained to his mother, grumbling, "Her arms still work, don't they?," and Mom said, "It's hard work being pregnant," and the other women in the kitchen – Miles' girlfriend and Aunt Rachel – nodded emphatically in agreement. Jimmy backed out slowly to clear more dishes from the table. That's probably not an argument he can win.

There's Anson, kissing Dad's ass like always, laughing at his jokes, and leaping up to help with whatever Dad asks. "God, you're such a brown-noser," Jimmy mocked him early in the evening.

"I want him to like me."

"You're boinking his daughter," Jimmy said. As an aside, "God, you have _hideous_ taste in women." Anson flipped him the bird. Jimmy went on, "Anyway, you could be Mahatma Gandhi in George Clooney's body with Bill Gates' money, and he'd still be giving you the stink-eye."

"Even so, I want him to think I'm a good guy."

Jimmy said, "He does. Trust me. I think he likes you better than any guy she's ever brought home."

"Why you gotta do that?" Anson said. "Bring up other guys?"

Jimmy snorted. "Really? You really think you're the first guy . . ."

Anson held up his hand. "Just don't care to hear about it. Oh, hey, that reminds me. Did I ever tell you about the time my cousin brought this fighter pilot she was totally hooked on to my grandparents' anniversary party? You've met my cousin, right, Jimmy?" Anson grinned.

"Fuck you, man."

Anson punched him on the shoulder. Anson's kind of like the brother Jimmy never had.

There's Aunt Rachel and Julian. As it turns out, having an aunt is like having a second, cooler mom. Like, you can talk to her about stuff (i.e., Lauren) and not worry that she's judging or making wedding plans in her head or imagining what the grandchildren are going to look like. Then again, when they went to the Observatory, Aunt Rachel slathered sunscreen on Julian and offered some to Jimmy. Jimmy turned it down, and Aunt Rachel lectured/nagged him about sun damage and skin cancer. See? Second Mom.

Julian's a cool kid. Mom says he reminds her a little of Jimmy when he was the same age. Still, he's just a little kid. He's technically a cousin, but Jimmy treats him more like a nephew. Just like Clem, who he treats like a niece, but who's technically a sister.

The big surprise is Uncle Miles' 'new' girlfriend. When Jimmy answered the front door to let them in, there stood this tiny woman with short, spiky, salt-and-pepper hair and dangly turquoise earrings. She put her hands to her mouth, squealed, then removed her hands to clap them and then hug Jimmy. "You're all grown up!" she exclaimed. Jimmy hugged back, but not too tightly, because, hello? Another Crazy Uncle Miles girlfriend. Also, she's one of those tiny women you don't want to squeeze too hard, because you worry you're gonna crush them.

When she let go, she said, "You don't remember me, do you?" Jimmy shook his head. "It's OK. You were probably only three when I moved to San Diego. I used to babysit for you."

Then he heard Mom over his shoulder, gasping, "Claudia!" Mom hugged her real tight. And, oh yeah, he remembers Claudia. Or, well, not really, but he remembers hearing about her. Rachel actually remembers her, though, and Claudia went through more exclaiming and hand clapping over her, and maybe too-familiar hugging with Anson, who she's never met before, but she seems really kind of quirky and cool and neat, and Uncle Miles looks really happy.

When Claudia was in the restroom, there was this little hushed confab in the kitchen. Uncle Miles said they ran into each other in Palm Springs. Then more whispered discussions about What She Knows. Conclusion: Miles hasn't told her yet about the time travel. He will, but not yet. Aunt Rachel walked in right then. "You're my niece for the evening," Mom announced.

"Cool," said Aunt Rachel.

So, those are the attendees of Dad's 70th birthday party: his wife and kids (two-thirds of them), his son-in-law, his best friend, his best friend's new/old girlfriend, his sister-in-law pretending to be niece-in-law, and Julian, who's just a little kid, so doesn't need to know his place in this whole crazy hierarchy.

It really is a lot of fun, and Dad's looking more and more relaxed, and less bummed about Clementine not coming. They've had dinner and gifts. Julian's swimming again. Dad's watching him from a pool chair, and Anson's out there too, sucking up, probably.

Rachel is sitting on the couch with Uncle Miles and Claudia, showing them ultrasound photos (and getting out of any work).

Jimmy brings the last of the dinner dishes from the dining room to the kitchen. Mom and Aunt Rachel are supposedly getting Dad's cake ready. The cake's on the counter, but it looks like Mom and Aunt Rachel are doing a lot more wine sipping and chit-chatting than candle lighting or cake cutting. Jimmy puts the last of the dishes in the sink. The doorbell rings.

"Wonder who that is?" Mom asks. She looks out the window to the pool. Doesn't look like Dad heard anything. Maybe it's Cass and Clem, but no point getting his hopes up. Dad's telling some story, and Anson's hanging on his every word.

"I'll go," Jimmy offers, as Mom and Aunt Rachel keep sipping wine and laughing at whatever story they're telling each other.

* * *

He opens the front door, to see a small man staring and blinking under the porch light.

"Goodness," the man says, barely containing a gasp, and taking a half step back. He looks down, and when he looks back up, he's more controlled. "I guess I don't need to ask who _you _are."

_OK, but who are you? _Jimmy says, "Are you here . . ."

The stranger interrupts him. "You look just like her." He pauses for effect, before adding, "Your mother, that is."

_Yeah, Captain Obvious, thanks, I figured that out already._

Jimmy asks, "You're friends with my mom?" _Another blast from the past I don't remember? Another little, spiky-haired person showing up out of the blue? Please don't tell me you used to babysit me, creepy dude._

"I think 'friends' would be taking it a bit far." _Ohhhkayy? _The stranger sticks out his hand.

Jimmy shakes his hand. "Jimmy LaFleur, nice to meet you," he says.

The stranger doesn't bother to introduce himself back, just shakes hands and stares. "Named after your father, were you?," he says with a hint of menace, very, very cold. _Dude, what the fuck?_

"Uhm, yeah. So, are you here for. . ." Jimmy tries to ask a second time.

The stranger cuts him off again, shaking his head as if to clear his mind. "That _always _baffled me."

Jimmy nods along, pretending to agree with . . . whatever. "So, are you here for Dad's birthday party?," he finally gets to finish his question while the guy's puzzling out whatever's baffling him.

"Oh dear. It's your father's birthday? I could've sworn his birthday was last week."

"The party's tonight."

"Oh." The stranger purses his lips, until they are a tiny bow in his face. Jimmy waits patiently while the guy thinks. "I doubt _I'd_ be welcome." He bugs out his eyes, shakes his head, and chuckles at his own 'joke.' Jimmy doesn't get it, so just stands, staring. Staring at people can make them uneasy, and that's why it's a sometimes useful habit. It seems to be working on this dude, who stares back, shaking his head, and saying under his breath, "Amazing. Amazing. So much like her." Jimmy crosses his arms, raises his eyebrows, waiting.

Finally, the man says, "I hate to intrude, but I really do have some important affairs to discuss. Maybe you could get . . . your mother . . . for me." He says 'your mother,' like his tongue can't get over those words. Jimmy's very confused.

"Yeah, OK. Who should I say you are?"

"Why don't you tell her I have a message from Hugo Reyes. You can remember that, can't you?"

"Yeah, Beaker, I ain't an idiot," Jimmy spits, then clamps his mouth shut. He senses that somehow this dude just goaded him into losing his temper.

"Remarkable," the guy whispers.

Whatever. "Wait here," Jimmy says, closing the front door and locking it behind him.

He strolls back through the house, Rachel on the couch laughing with Claudia and rubbing Uncle Miles' shiny, bald head; Dad, wrapping Julian in a big towel on the pool deck, Anson dropping pool toys in a basket; to the kitchen, where Mom and Aunt Rachel are still drinking wine, and making no progress whatsoever on the cake.

"Who was it?" Mom asks, sliding off her stool, opening the box of birthday candles. "You really think I should put seventy of these on the cake?" she asks Aunt Rachel, half joking.

Aunt Rachel laughs. "Do you have the fire department on speed dial?" she asks.

Jimmy says, "It's some guy, he says he has a message from Hugo Reyes."

Mom tilts her head, looking confused. "From Hurley?" she asks.

"No, from . . ."

She interrupts, puffing her cheeks, and holding her hands in front of her like she's got a big belly, "Was he a large man?"

"No, no he wasn't. The message is _from_ this Hugo Reyes dude. The guy out there on the porch is little."

Mom shakes her head, purses her lips, shrugs her shoulders, confused. "You left him on the porch? You didn't invite him in?"

"He was kinda creepy." Jimmy says, hoping to excuse his lack of manners. He adds, "He didn't say his name, but he was a little guy. With like . . . like, bug eyes?"

Mom pales, and her hands start shaking. She drops the box of birthday candles, and at least half of them skitter onto the floor.

Aunt Rachel reaches out a hand to grasp Mom's forearm. "Jules? You OK?"

"Mom?" Jimmy asks, concerned.

"Where's your father?"

"Uh . . ." what's that got to do with anything?

Mom stops shaking, and she has her color back. "James Carlson LaFleur, where is your father?" she snaps, all business. Aunt Rachel stares at her, impressed.

"He's out at the pool with Anson and Julian. Want me to get him?" Jimmy, worried and confused, shifts his weight to head in that direction.

"No!" Mom snaps. Then, more calmly, "No. You're sure he's there? You're sure he's OK? Anson's with him?" Jimmy nods. "OK, OK," she breathes. "He may try to hurt him. That may be what he's here for." Jimmy guesses she means the weird dude on the porch and not Anson.

"Uh . . ." Jimmy's dumbfounded. He looks to Aunt Rachel. She's wide-eyed. She shrugs at him.

"Wait here," Mom instructs them. Aunt Rachel does as she's told. She bends down and starts picking up birthday candles from the floor. Jimmy ignores Mom's directive. What's she gonna do? Ground him? He follows her back through the house, and she's moving so fast he has to trot to keep up. They both glance through the glass doors to see Dad on the pool deck. He's helping Julian with his flip-flops. He looks up and waves at them. Jimmy notices that halfway through his wave, Dad stops moving his hand and his face falls. It's clear he can tell something's bothering Mom.

When they reach the front door, Mom takes a huge breath, then holds her hand over the deadbolt knob for a second or two. Jimmy stands as quietly as he possibly can. He wonders if she even realizes he's followed her. He stares at her hands. Mom's hands look so much older than the rest of her. They actually look like the hands of a 67-year-old. She twists the deadbolt, unlocking the door. He steps up beside her, and when the door opens, he makes a little Vanna White hand gesture, _Ta Da! Presenting . . . drumroll please . . .My Mom!_

Weird dude blinks a bunch of times. He gulps and, if possible, his bug eyes get bigger and buggier than before.

"Ben," Mom says.

"Juliet," he whispers. After an extended pause, he says, in a stronger voice. "So nice to see you again. You've . . . you've aged well."

Mom puts her hands behind her back. Jimmy stifles a laugh. Ha! Mom's vain about her hands, who knew? "What do you want?" she asks.

A look of disappointment crosses his face, but he recovers, and says, officiously, "Hugo needs a favor."

Mom doesn't give anything away. "I was under the impression he was killed in a plane crash."

"Don't play stupid. You and I both know that's not what happened to them."

"What did happen to them, Ben?"

"It's the darndest thing. You'll never believe this, but they went back in time. To the 1970s, isn't that just a kicker?" Mom doesn't react, just stares. This is probably where Jimmy got it from. The guy, Ben, smiles for a second then goes on. "And then there was an Incident, and they returned to their right time. Through a long series of events I won't bore you with, Jacob was killed, and Hugo is now in charge. I'm . . . well, you could say I'm his deputy."

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" Dad roars from behind them, swooping in, pushing Jimmy out of the way.

"Nice to see you, too, James," Ben says. "Although, as neither your . . ." he grits his teeth before continuing, "_wife_ nor your son has seen fit to invite me in, you can see, technically, I'm not _in_ your house."

"Get the fuck out," Dad says. He's got that look on his face, with the wrinkle over his nose, his eyes narrowed and flashing.

Ben clucks his tongue. "Now, now. Is that any way to treat a visitor?"

"Hey now," Jimmy steps in, muscling Dad out of the way and towering over their visitor. He has no clue what's going on, but he's not letting this little piss-ant treat his parents that way. He could use a good beat-down, hockey-style.

Mom says, quietly and calmly (and kind of creepily), "Please don't hurt him, Ben. Please. Can't you please . . ."

Ben laughs, "Why would I hurt him? No, I gave up that ghost a long time ago. Besides, I think Hugo would have my hide if I mis-treated one of his friends. He's doing well by the way. Hugo, that is."

For an uncomfortably long time, everyone stands staring (or glaring, in Dad's case). Then Mom says, "Why don't you come in?" like she's made the decision for all of them. She opens the door, and Ben takes a step toward her.

"Juliet, you don't gotta. . ." Dad starts.

"Let's hear him out, James," she says, and leads them directly to the den, where they don't have to pass anyone else in the house.

Once in the den, Ben stands for a while, staring at all the pictures on the wall. Rachel and Anson helped with this project, selecting and redeveloping and framing and hanging the family photos. Ben works his mouth up and down, fixating on a picture of Mom and Dad in dressy clothes, maybe sometime in the early 80s.

"I'm sorry," he turns to Dad. "I apologize. I was a bit . . . harsh with you when I had you in captivity, but you have to understand, to find out who you really were . . . It was _not_ easy for me. I apologize for torturing you."

"You think that's what you gotta apologize for?" Dad spits.

"What else?"

"How 'bout lyin' to her?" Dad shakes a finger in Mom's direction. "How 'bout not lettin' her go home? How 'bout that, huh?"

"And where would you be now, _Sawyer_, if I had let her go home? Where would _he_ be?" Ben points directly at Jimmy. _Thanks, dude. _Jimmy was kinda hoping no one would notice he was still hanging around. Ben stares at Jimmy, and asks, "I take it you are aware of where your parents came from?"

Jimmy nods, still trying to keep quiet. Any minute now, Mom's going to send him away.

"Why don't you just tell us what it is Hurley needs?" Mom breaks in. She holds out a hand, gesturing at the couch, and Ben sits.

"Some of your friends - they managed to fix the airplane and fly it off the Island. They made it as far as Espiritu Santo."

"Where the hell is that?" Dad asks.

"It's in Vanuatu," Jimmy answers. "East of Australia, North of New Zealand." Jimmy won the school Geography Bee in 7th and 8th grades. _Thank you, hockey, for keeping me from being the World's Biggest Dork._

"Smart boy," Ben says. "Must take after his mother."

Dad sneers, but doesn't take the bait.

Mom says, "Their plane crashed more than a year ago."

Ben says, "To you, maybe. To them, it was a few weeks ago. Time works in funny ways on the Island. Surely you know that, Juliet." Ben crosses his legs at the ankle, puts his clasped hands in his lap and looks again at the pictures on the wall. In the dressy picture, Dad's standing behind Mom with his arms draped over her shoulders. Her face is right up next to his. She must be wearing heels. They look really happy. Ben stares and blinks. Then he turns to them, and says in a calm monotone, "They're in Espiritu Santo. I have connections that can massage the paperwork to get them back in, but we need a private jet to get them out. To get a private jet, we need someone with the money to secure a private jet. So Hugo sent me here."

"How does. . ." Mom starts, but Dad cuts her off.

Dad says, "Nuh uh. First off, Captain Bunnykiller, I don't believe you. Second, if Jumbotron needs the money, why don't he use his own? He's loaded."

"Because Hugo Reyes is legally deceased, and we have no desire to change that." Dad scoffs at Ben's explanation. Ben continues, "If I'm not mistaken, aren't James Ford and Juliet Burke also legally deceased?" Dad grumbles.

Mom says, "You haven't told us who we're expected to save."

Ben says, "The pilot. Sayid. Sun. Jin. And Richard. Desmond, too, actually, although I'll need Hugo to send him along later."

Dad's ears perk up. "Jin? Did you say Jin? He's OK?"

"He's alive, but 'OK' may be overstating it a bit. He's been shot, and he needs medical attention. More than he's getting now."

"_Shot?_ Who the fuck shot him?" Dad demands.

Ben shrugs.

Dad says, "I may be 70, but I swear to God, if I ever get my hands on the son of a bitch who shot Jin-Bo . . ."

Ben smiles, then laughs to himself. "I'd hate to miss that."

"How much money do you need, and where do we send it?" Mom asks.

"Now, hold on just a minute, Juliet," Dad says. "How do we know this ain't just another one of his mind games? Another con?"

"We don't," she says. "But it's just money."

Ben says, "Not quite. I'll need one of you to go with the plane. Hugo wants someone he can trust to escort them back into the country, Jin especially. Hugo feels he needs medical attention immediately upon arrival."

Dad says, "Sorry, but I'll pass."

Ben looks surprised. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"Yeah, Ben, I heard you. And I believe you about as much as I ever have. Let me get this straight. The plane crashed, and somehow . . . they flew it off the Island? It's landed safe and sound, and now you need us to fly 'em back to the States."

"James, if you don't help, Jin could die," Ben argues.

"Yeah, I heard that part."

Ben scoffs. "And you're OK with that?"

"You ain't hearin' me, _Henry_. I trust you 'bout as far as I can throw you. So, I'm stickin' to my decision. Anyway, we don't got passports and ain't never left the country. Don't plan to start now."

"I'll go," Jimmy volunteers.

Everyone turns to look at him. "Like hell you will!" Dad chuffs. Mom says, "Absolutely not. No."

Jimmy shrugs. "I have a passport," he says. "I'll go. It'll be an adventure. Send me."

"Are you serious?" Dad asks.

"We can't let your friend die," Jimmy says. "You want to help them? Let me help." He turns to Ben. "I'll do it. What do you need?"

Dad says, "Now listen, son. Don't be confused by the mousy act. Do not believe a word he says. Benjamin Linus here is a professional liar and con artist."

"So were you, Dad," Jimmy retorts. Dad looks at the floor. Jimmy turns back to Ben. "First, tell me what happened to the doctor. I think Kate has a right to know."

Ben says, "Well, I don't think I can . . ."

Jimmy says, "Tell me, or I'm not going."

Ben nods. "All right. He was the Island leader before Hugo. He saved the Island. He sacrificed himself for the Island."

Jimmy laughs. That is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard: "Island leader," "sacrificed himself for the Island," . . . it all sounds so serious. And silly. Mom and Dad aren't laughing, though. Guess if you've actually been there and been shot back in time, you might not find it so absurd.

"He was a brave man. He won't be coming back," Ben says in a quiet voice.

"Thank you," Jimmy says. "Thank you for telling us. We'll make sure Kate knows that. So, now what? What do I do?"

Ben pulls a piece of paper from a satchel in his lap. He hands it to Mom. "Hugo's instructions are all written there. As you can see, these are his wishes, not mine." Mom hands the paper over to Dad.

Dad smiles. "He says on here he forgives me for the frog. You really are here for Hurley."

Ben says, "Yes. Yes I am. I'm not lying to you, James. You'll need to transfer four million dollars to that account he mentions. I can take care of the rest. I'll have someone get in touch with your son regarding the jet and his trip to Vanuatu."

Mom says, "He's my son, Ben. You can't have him. I can't trust you with my son. I'm sorry, but I can't do that."

Jimmy says, "Mom, I can take care of myself." Fact is, he doesn't want either of his parents to have to do this, it's too risky, at their age, without passports. He appreciates what she's doing here, trying to protect him, but he's not a little boy. He looks to Ben. "I'll do it. I'm going."

Mom shakes her head. She can't stop him, and she knows it.

Ben says, "Oh! I almost forgot. I didn't tell you the details of Jin's injury. He's shot in the shoulder, and the fear now is an onset of sepsis. That can't be fun, can it, James? If I'm not mistaken, Jin once made sure you received the medical attention you needed. I'd like to think you'll do the same for him. Of course, later on you shot the man who'd shot you." Ben holds up his hands. "Water under the bridge," he says. "Turnabout's fair play, I suppose. But, let's hope Jin doesn't get it in mind to do the same thing."

"Thought you didn't know who shot him," Dad says.

"Oh, I don't. I assure you. It's almost too complicated to explain. Widmore's goons were transporting him to Hydra. . ."

"Ole Chucky Cheese was there?" Dad interrupts.

"Not anymore, he's not." Ben shrugs. "Anyway, as they're taking Jin between islands, they think they see John Locke . . ."

"Thought he was dead," Dad interrupts again.

"He was," Ben says. "So, Widmore's men start shooting at him . . ."

Mom jerks her head back. Dad interrupts for the third time. "Why would they shoot at Locke?"

Ben says, "He wasn't really John Locke." _This story makes absolutely no sense_, Jimmy thinks. Ben continues, "Or maybe he was. Who's to say? Anyway, Locke's boat shot back, and poor Jin got caught in the crossfire. Well!" Ben lightly taps his thighs, then stands, "Interesting little tale, isn't it? James, I certainly do hope you get your hands on, what did you say? 'The son of a bitch' who shot Jin. You'll have to keep me posted on your search." He points to the paper he gave them earlier. "The information to get in touch with me is there. I'll see myself out."

Mom and Dad sit still and silent for at least three minutes. Later that night, they call Jimmy and tell him he can go to Vanuatu if he feels like he's up to it.

* * *

As soon as the jet touches down on a private runway, Ben runs off to work with his "emissaries," as he called them. He points to a discreet tent, tucked into a bit of jungle off the runway. "Go in there, round them up, get them on the plane. You have twenty minutes."

Jimmy crosses the runway shimmering in heat. He ducks his head, lifts the flap, and steps into the tent. He sets his sunglasses on his head, eyes adjusting to the slight dimness after the searing light outdoors. He blinks, his contacts feeling heavy and sticky on his eyes. Everyone in the tent turns to look at him - all except Jin, lying pale and gray on a stretcher.

A short, Middle-Eastern looking dude, stands up. This must be Sayid. He stares at Jimmy, sizing him up. He says, in a calm, even tone, "Ben said he'd be sending someone we knew."

"You know my father," Jimmy says.

"And who is that?"

"Jim LaFleur," Jimmy answers. "Or, no, no . . . I mean, James Ford. Sawyer."

Sayid laughs mirthlessly. "You are not a good liar, are you?"

"No sir." _Egads._ Dad said to watch out, this guy could snap your neck between his legs. Jimmy feels sweat creeping into his armpits. Sweat on top of the sweat already there. He looks around. Everyone's staring at him. There's a guy in the corner, looks like he's straight off the set of a Burt Reynolds movie. Another dark-looking guy looks like he's straight out of a J. Crew Catalog.

"Why don't you tell us who you really are?" Sayid says.

_Be calm, be calm, be calm._ Jimmy tries the staring trick, but it doesn't quite work, because Sayid stares back. "My name is Jimmy LaFleur, but my dad is James Ford." He's said this already, but what else is he supposed to say? Dad said Sayid knows about the time travel, so . . .

"Jim," the injured man, Jin, croaks from his stretcher.

Jimmy steps over to him and kneels down to him. Sayid warns, "Back away from him," but Jin has already reached out to take Jimmy's hand.

"You are OK," Jin says in a whisper. "I did not know . . ." Jimmy leans in closer to hear him. "Did not know what happened to you." His eyes close. Jimmy's glad he's here to get him help. Jin's eyes reopen, and he speaks in a stronger voice. "The quarterly report. It is late. Jerry said he lost some of the log sheets. I will get it to you very soon, OK?"

"Yeah, OK." Crap. He's really making no sense. "We've gotta get you out of here," Jimmy mutters. He stands to explain the situation.

"He thinks you are someone else," says the only woman in the tent. Sun, his wife. Jimmy mentally checks the list in his mind. Everyone's here but the Scottish dude.

Jimmy turns directly to Sun for the first time. "I guess he thinks I'm my dad." That's never happened before.

Sayid's voice drips sarcasm. "Sawyer."

"Right . . ." Jimmy starts.

Sun says, "Oh!," and grabs his chin in her small, smooth hand. She stares at him and starts to giggle. It seems out of place in this hot, dim, sickly tent. "Jin told me, but I did not believe him. I thought maybe he was making a joke."

"Believe what, Sun? What did Jin tell you?" Sayid asks.

She's still got Jimmy's chin in her hands. She turns his face to Sayid. "Don't you see?" She asks. "Who his mother is?"

Sayid stares at him. The dark guy in the corner stands up and approaches, shaking his head and half smiling. Sayid still looks confused, and says, "Why don't you enlighten us?"

Jimmy starts to answer, but Sun beats him to the punch. "Juliet! Right?" She looks to Jimmy.

"Right," he mushes. Sun's still holding his chin. She realizes and lets go. Sayid stares harder. For a second, recognition dawns, before he says, "That's impossible."

The dark guy . . . Richard, Jimmy remembers from his parents' tutorial, says "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. LaFleur," and shakes his hand. Jimmy shakes and mumbles, "Likewise." Not really, but that's the polite thing to say.

Sayid's still making him really nervous, Mom and Dad were both scared of him at various times, and now he's scaring the shit out of Jimmy, but he thinks the rest of them trust him now. Especially Sun. She hugs him. "Thank you," she says to him. "For helping us, and your mother. . . she . . . well, thank you." She hugs him again.

He pushes her away. "You can thank her in person soon. Listen, we need to go. I've got the jet waiting outside. Ben's wrapping things up. We need to be back on the plane in," he checks his watch, "ten minutes. I need you all to come with me. Please."

Richard gestures to the Burt Reynolds dude. Without speaking, the two lift Jin's stretcher. "Lead the way, young man," says Burt.

Sun gathers a few things from the floor, then stands right beside Jin's stretcher to take his hand.

Jimmy turns to Sayid. "You comin'?" he asks.

Sayid says, "You really are Sawyer and Juliet's son." It's not a question.

Jimmy wonders why _that's_ so hard to believe - _dude, you just escaped a crazy, magical mystery island_.

"After you," Sayid gestures to the tent flap, and Jimmy steps back out onto the bright tarmac. He follows the lot of them onto the plane, making sure Jin is comfortably positioned.

Ben is waiting. "Good work, Jimmy," he says.

"Thank you, Ben."

* * *

The plane flies to Sydney to refuel. Jimmy's pretty sure his dad would shit a brick if he knew he was flying Sydney to LA. Jimmy has better luck than his father, though, and twenty hours later they touch down in Los Angeles. Jimmy breathes a sigh of relief. He'd never been afraid to fly before, but that whole little errand terrorized him. He sees a nondescript van parked to the side of the tarmac. He knows it's Mom, Dad, Uncle Miles, and Kate waiting in there.


	58. Back to the Future

**I'm not thrilled with this chapter. **

**So, ENJOY!**

* * *

He can't put this off any longer.

His first excuse was he didn't wanna do it first thing in the morning. "Better to let her have a good day," he lied to himself. Then he didn't wanna do it in the afternoon, not while she had the boy to take care of, but he's probably in bed now. James checks his watch: 8:15. Aaron should be in bed, right? He tries to remember. What were his kids' bedtimes? He can't remember. Curfew times he can remember. High school years they were midnight, or 1 AM - "only if you call us at midnight to tell us what you're up to." Bedtime? For a four-year-old? Jesus, that's been a long time. A whole quarter of a century since Jimmy was four.

He sees a light go off on the second floor. Seconds later, a light in the downstairs comes on. He's been sitting in his car, parked on the street, for at least an hour. God knows how many neighbors have walked, biked, or driven by. No one bothers him. He's just an old man in his wife's Lexus. Nothing remarkable or remotely dangerous. He waits a little longer, in case the upstairs light goes on again. Maybe Aaron will 'need' a glass of water or one last night-night kiss. Maybe his sheets will be too tight or his pillow too cold or any of the zillion excuses James' kids used to fight bedtime.

Speaking of a zillion excuses, he really can't put this off any longer.

He gets the guts to leave his car, cross the street, and knock quietly on her door. When she opens it, she looks more than a little surprised to see him.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," she replies, looking behind him, scanning the street. He can see it in her eyes. _What's he doing here? _She's wondering right now. Instead of asking, she flirts with him. "Had trouble with the Halliburton, huh?"

His heart leaps. It's been ages since a thirtysomething hot chick flirted with him. Plus, it's _Kate_, and despite it all, he likes to think there's still some connection there. "Nah, keys worked just fine," he answers. "Mind if I come in?"

"Not at all," she says. She steps back to let him in, and she closes the door behind him. "Everything OK? With your family?"

She can see it. He's not here to reminisce about the good ole days or to sit and shoot the shit. Besides, what do they got in common anymore anyways? "They're all good, thanks for askin'."

Her eyes get big – nervous? Worried? Excited? Never really was able to tell with her. "Come on back," she says, leading him into her living room. On the way, he spies a framed photo of Jack with toddler Aaron on the swings, Jack behind him, gripping the chains. Shit. He feels sick. He should've let Jimmy do this, but he's not gonna let his son be the better man all the time.

She sits on the couch. He sits next to her. She stares at him expectantly. She doesn't ask or give him any opening. She waits.

"Uh. After you left last night, uh, someone came to visit us."

"Who?"

_Christ, woman, just let me get through the story. _

He's gonna talk around this part. Leave Ben out of it. He and Juliet were up into the wee hours trying to figure this all out. Who to tell what and what to tell who and are they really fucking going to let Jimmy go to Vanuatu? With Ben? That – staying up all night plotting with Juliet – now _that's_ the good ole days. And just like the good ole days, he knows when to listen to Jules, who said, "Better not tell her Ben's involved, if you can help it."

"Who came to visit you, James?" Kate demands again.

"Hurley . . ."

"Hurley! ?"

"Now hold on just a minute, here, lemme talk. Not Hurley. Hurley sent a messenger."

"Hurley's alive?"

"Dammit, Freckles, let me finish," he barks. She glares at him. Had it always been like this with her? Fucking irritating? Like even a simple (or not-so-simple) conversation is some kinda contest? And he actually _liked _this? Thought it was hot? Hell, _yeah_, he did. Exhausting. What the hell was wrong with him back then? Just didn't know any better.

"Fine," she spits.

"Thank you. All right. Hurley's alive and well, and apparently he's now the Island's big kahuna. Figuratively and literally." He waits for her to laugh. That was a joke. No response. Fine, moving on. "Anyway . . ."

"If Hurley's alive does that mean . . ."

He holds up a hand. "Please," he says quietly. He knows what she's gonna ask, and that's what he's here for. He wishes she'd give him the chance to get through it. "Sun, Jin, and Sayid are all alive. They made it off the Island, and me and Jules" (and Jimmy, oh God, please let him be OK) "are gonna help 'em get back to civilization. But, uh, that ain't the reason I came here tonight. I came 'cause I need to tell ya . . ."

Her face crumples. She covers her eyes with her palm. She's shaking her head 'no' behind her hand. "I knew it," she says. "I knew he wasn't ever coming back, but I always held out hope."

"I'm so sorry," he says, taking her free hand. "I'm so sorry. We thought about maybe not tellin' ya, but figured you'd probably wanna know. Kate, I'm so, so sorry."

"Thank you," she says squeezing his hand, nodding. "I appreciate it. How . . ."

James shakes his head. "I dunno the details exactly. But apparently he was in charge before Hugo. He saved them all, Kate. They escaped 'cause of him. He saved them."

"Of course he did," she says quietly. She removes her hand from his. Tears stream down her cheeks, but she's quiet and still. He sits, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. He cannot even begin to imagine what she's thinking or how she's feeling.

And how's he supposed to act? Like she's his ex-lover? Someone he's had some damn fine (and kinky) sex with? In which case, he'd use her vulnerability to score. Or maybe he should act like she's a girl his son once dated. In which case, maybe a simple 'there, there' pat on the leg might do. Or then again, he could treat her like the first person he ever truly loved or like she's someone about his daughter's age. In either of those cases, he'd open his arms to her and let her sob on his shoulder.

He goes for something in between, putting an arm over her shoulders, and pulling her to him. It makes him think of Ana Lucia and Libby. At first, Kate sags into him, but that doesn't last long. She pushes off him, gathers herself in, and worries her hands. He notices for the first time that she's holding a Spiderman action figure. He wonders what she'll tell Aaron. He wonders . . . he wonders a lot of things.

Maybe she'll want to talk about it. Her memories, her life with him. "He live here with you? Jack?"

She's fighting tears. "Yep." Ok, maybe she doesn't want to talk about it.

Here's where Jack and Kate lived. They probably sat right here on the couch and read or talked about their days or did Sudoku together or made out while Aaron slept upstairs. Or . . . or, well, whatever the Doc and Freckles got up to when they were alone. It's kinda hard to imagine them bein' normal, not arguin' about jungle hikes or camp secrets.

Here's where they lived. Probably shoulda known that already. Funny thing, way back when, back when they realized they were stuck in the past for the long haul, he and Juliet used to joke about what would happen when Jack and the gang escaped the Island. They figured they'd stalk them, but good. Find out where they lived, what they did, _who_ they did . . . Time came, and truth was, they didn't really care anymore. They made it back, great for them, and who and what they did was their own goddamn business . . . long as they eventually went back to the Island like they were supposed to. Jack _had _to go back so James could have the life he's had. He feels horribly guilty.

"I'm sorry," he tries again, lamely.

She says, "You already said that."

He wants to explain. "He came back to save us, and he did. Us, and Jin, too."

She shakes her head. "It's not your fault he's dead. It's mine. He practically begged me to go with him. And I chose to stay. I chose to stay, because . . . because my son was more important to me. You understand that, right?"

Is she asking him to absolve her of guilt, 'cause yeah, yeah he understands that. Why the hell she think he's been livin' in the past for nearly thirty five years? 'Cause his kids are the most important thing in the world, and this ain't 'the past' to them (ain't the past to him anymore, neither). He doesn't know what to do, other than to think Aaron's a lucky boy.

"He asked me to marry him," she says, apropos of nothing.

James knew that. He's known that since the summer of 1977, right around the time she was bein' born. Her whole life he's known the Doc's gonna pop the question. Time travel's a bitch.

She says, "You better get home. It's getting late." She stands up, and he follows suit. He wants to protest, he can stay, make her tea, make her a stiff drink, just sit with her, but going home sounds pretty great too. He wants to go home, and give his wife a hug, thank whoever's looking out for him that he doesn't understand what she's going through.

He hugs her at the front door. "You gonna be OK?" he asks. "You need anything? We can . . ."

She says, "You said you're working to get them back?"

He nods.

She says, "I want to help. I owe that to him. Whatever you need."

"All right, Freckles. All right."

He limps across the road (sittin' in the car all day did nothin' for his bum knee). When he gets in the car, he spies Juliet's gym bag on the back seat (that damn spin class) and a Babies 'R Us bag on the passenger seat (bunch of stuff off Rachel's registry). Tears stream down his face the whole ride home.

Is Jack dead so James could have his life?

Going home doesn't make it much better, until in the dark, approaching midnight, Juliet whispers to him, "Stop feeling guilty. He didn't go back for us. He went back for him."

Even though he'd never even told her exactly what was bothering him.

* * *

Juliet's just about had it with this too-hot minivan of tension. Why don't they get out? Why are they just sitting here on the tarmac? At least everyone looks as sweaty and overheated as she is. Not like those godawful hot flashes from back in the day. She's still somewhat surprised Miles survived that whole ordeal. James was adequately solicitous and patient. Miles, on the other hand . . . "It's not that hot in here, Juliet, what's your problem?" Yeah, he's very, very, very lucky he survived.

The driver was sold as "very discreet," more than likely because he speaks no English. Miles had to habla Espanol at him to get him out here . . . to this even more discreet airport. She's lived in LA for close to 15 years now, and never knew this was here. She's reminded of eons ago, Rachel dropping her at the airport in Miami. She wonders how many other major metropolitan US cities also boast Secret Other Air Terminals.

Miles and James worked out all this airport, transportation, jet stuff. Kate's been working up a cover story and paying out gobs of LaFleur money to an adoption attorney to get custody of Ji Yeon worked out. Juliet's lined up, interviewed, and secured a private medical facility for Jin's recuperation. All ducks in a row. Now the plane has to get here. _Please, please, please, please._

WHY? Why had she agreed to this? Ben has Jimmy in his clutches. Why? Because she trusts Hurley. Because she shot Jin. Because she's had this amazing, fabulous and mostly happy life, and she can't sit around and let her friends die in Vanuatu? Or Espiritu Santo, or wherever the hell that is? Jimmy would know. Jimmy _does_ know. _Please, please, please, please_.

They see the plane circling the runway, making its approach for a landing. _Please, please, please, please. _She takes James' hand. _Please._

Miles incessantly drums on the dashboard with a rolled-up jet rental manifest. It's annoying. It's because he's nervous, too. Not as nervous as she is. There's no way anyone can possibly be as nervous as she is.

The plane lands safely. Kate practically has her nose pressed against the window glass. Juliet realizes Kate saw Sun and Sayid only a year ago. How this hasn't dawned on her yet . . . she's been preoccupied with the fact that BEN has her SON.

James opens the door to the van and steps out onto the tarmac. She follows him. Kate and Miles pile out soon after. The air is fresh with a light breeze. It's refreshing. Why didn't they do this sooner? Why'd they sit so long in the stuffy, hot minivan of tension? Because they were all too nervous to move.

The door to the jet opens. Ben is the first out. He hurries off to meet with his "emissaries," as he called them, stationed at the jetport.

Sayid comes next. James makes a face that's a half grimace, half smile. Those two have a complicated history. Richard comes next, stepping backwards, carefully down folded steps to the tarmac. Juliet's pretty sure her face is half grimace, half smile.

The reason for his cautious backward stepping becomes obvious. He's carefully toting Jin's stretcher. Jin looks gray, but Richard seems to be talking to him. Next is someone who looks vaguely familiar, carrying the other end of Jin's stretcher. Then Sun, and Juliet has so much she wants to tell her, but . . .but . . .

Jimmy's out last, ducking through the small jet door, leaping to the ground, searching them out. James gets to him first, enveloping him in a huge bear hug. James holds tight, his head sagging against Jimmy's shoulder, and any second now, he's going to start with the manly backslapping, and the virile hair ruffling, the "I'm-too-manly-to-give-hugs-to-other-guys" hug. It never comes. He keeps holding onto his son, until Jimmy sees her lurking.

Jimmy pushes James away. "Hey, Mom," he says, like no big deal.

"How was Vanuatu?" she asks, no big deal. Then starts to cry. She hugs her son. She hangs on real tight. Ben didn't take him. Hurley wouldn't let that happen. He didn't.

She notices a light tugging at her sleeve. She turns to see Sun. "I need to go with Jin. I wanted to say thank you. We will see you soon?"

"Count on it," James answers for her.

Sun's hand flies to her mouth. "Sawyer!" she gasps.

"At your service," he smiles and mock salutes. She hugs him.

"Thank you for taking care of Jin," she says. That was so long ago, or a year ago, depending.

"Sun!" Kate calls from across the tarmac. The security gate swings open, and the ambulance they've arranged creeps in, lights flashing, sirens silent.

"That's Jin's ride," Jimmy says to Sun.

"Go with Jin," Juliet says to her. "We'll see you in a bit."

They watch them leave. Jimmy says, "I'm beat, Mom. Can I crash at your place for a few days?" He looks rumpled, unshaven, eyes bloodshot, tired. He looks like his father once did. Never thought that before.

"Absolutely," she says.

* * *

It took about three bags of IV fluids, but Jin's revived. The doctor thinks it should only take a round or two of antibiotics before he starts regaining his strength. Barring no setbacks, he'll be out in ten days. He is greatly invigorated by and gets great merriment from joking about their age-related maladies. Their hair – white, gray, and bald – seems to be Jin's greatest source of amusement.

"Ain't lookin' so hot yerself, Super Jin," James remarks.

But then the weirdness fades. They're together again, smiling, laughing, gossiping, catching up on thirty two years (or one). The weirdness doesn't fade with Sun and Sayid, though. They sit to the side, laughing where appropriate, listening in, on the outside of inside jokes. They make Juliet self-conscious, and she finds herself sitting on her hands, not using them to express herself. She halfway wishes she'd kept dyeing her hair.

When James gets up to get them coffee, it gets weirder, even more uncomfortable. He bends down with a hand on her shoulder. "You want two creams, no sugar?" She nods up at him, and he gently pats her back, leaves his hand there, kisses her on top of the head. Really, really, really innocuous. And yet, Sayid and Sun stare the whole time, and when Juliet darts her eyes that way, she notices they both have their mouths hanging slightly open.

_He patted me on the back and kissed me on the head! Trust me guys, you ain't seen nothin'. _

Jin's got to get over the age thing, the other two have to get over _everything_. It's awkward.

Kate swoops in to the rescue with a pile of paperwork. Juliet's so proud of the work she's done to get Ji Yeon back to them. Is that weird? To feel proud of Kate? Kate, who was once (or twice, technically) her romantic rival? That's weird, isn't it? But she doesn't really think of her as a former romantic rival. She's someone her daughter's age. She's someone her son once dated. And Juliet is proud of her. Jack would be proud of her, she feels sure of that.

Kate sits at Jin's bedside, right next to Sun, and she's methodically and carefully explaining everything. Miles is in the men's room. Juliet smiles and nods awkwardly at Sayid, sitting in the corner. James returns with the coffee, sits next to her and takes her hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. Sayid shakes his head in wonderment.

And it dawns on Juliet. She's so happy they're safe, happy they're going to get their lives back. She's thrilled she could have some part in getting that for them. But, with the exception of Jin, they're just people she knew for a few months more than thirty years ago. She wishes them well, but they aren't her people. She needs to get home.

Jimmy's there, sleeping. She's going to make him his favorite dinner, and she needs to bake a lemon pound cake, his favorite dessert. She thinks she should've probably already made the pound cake, but she would have burned it for sure while she was still worried about Jimmy. Maybe she should get Rachel and Anson to come for dinner, too. That baby boy will be here any day now. Although, is it terribly wrong of her to secretly hope he makes Rachel wait a few extra weeks? Turnabout's fair play.

She should stay here for a little longer, though, right? Is that the right thing to do? Aren't they settled in enough? Is it strange that she doesn't care as much as she thinks she should?

"Well!" James finishes off his coffee and slaps his thighs, interrupting her reverie. "Listen, folks. These old bones have had enough for today. So me and Jules are goin' home. Ain't young and spry like you folks, or we'd stick around longer. See y'all around."

He gets up, bends down to give Jin a hug, hugs Sun and Kate, gives Sayid a manly handshake. Juliet follows suit, although she skips the manly handshake with Sayid, giving him a polite hug instead.

On his way out the door, James asks Miles, "Need a ride, Oda Mae?"

Miles shakes his head. "Gave Claudia a ring. She's coming to pick me up."

Juliet realizes she was a good bit more excited to have Claudia back in her life than any of these people. She never accidentally shot Claudia during a time-travel mix-up for one thing. But also? Claudia's aged about twenty five years since Juliet saw her last. She doesn't feel nearly as self-conscious about the way she looks. And speaking of self-conscious, Claudia doesn't stare at Juliet funny when she and James share a kiss or when she brushes the hair off his forehead.

On the way to the parking lot, she asks James, "You need me to drive? Is your knee bothering you? You OK?" He did just make a fuss over his old, achy bones.

He laughs. "Fine. All that back in there, about the old bones? Just an excuse. Look, I'm happy they're all OK, but they ain't my people anymore. Let's go home to our people."

_**June 24, 2009**_

Juliet's exhausted sigh comes out more like a groan as she collapses to the couch, propping her shoe-clad feet on the coffee table (one of her cardinal rules – no shoes on the furniture, but holy cow, she's tired). She lolls her head back to rest on the couch. "Was it always that exhausting?"

"We were thirty years younger," James calls from the kitchen

They spent the whole day babysitting little Evan. He slept a good bit, but always in one of their arms. Every time they tried to put him down, he wailed. Rachel said it was OK to let him cry, but they're two old softies, and couldn't bare that. He's only a little more than 10 pounds, but you try carting that around all day and see how you feel.

"You realize he's the same size Jimmy was when he was born?" James pointed out about three hours in, when she was already complaining about her back.

"I was thirty years younger," she answered.

He was sweet and smooth and baby-smelling. He pooped and he spit up, and he snuggled in their arms. Then he got fussy and loud and inconsolable at 4:30. Oh yeah, she'd forgotten about this time of day. His parents got home at 6, and his grandparents handed him off and beat feet. Now she's going to sit all night with a heating pad on her back. Sixty seven is kind of a pain in the ass. Beats the alternative, though.

"Don't look. Gotta surprise," James approaches the couch with his hands behind his back. "Close your eyes." She complies. She hears what sounds like the hiss of air escaping a beer can. "Open 'em," he orders. She does. He's handing over a Dharma beer.

She laughs, accepting the can. "Where? What. . . where did you . . ."

"Turns out, there's like a big warehouse of Dharma shit, and Hugo owes me a favor. So, I had him send four six-packs. Cheers." He bumps the top of her can with the bottom of his. "Happy anniversary."

It snuck up on her. June 24. Thirty five years since they landed in the past. She's lived this string longer than she lived the other. Passed that milestone a couple of years back. She kisses him. He tastes like beer, but only a little bit. He tastes like him. She feels like she can't stop kissing him, but he grunts as he lowers himself to the couch.

"Damn knee," he grouses, causing her to laugh. They. Are. So. Old.

She takes a sip of beer, crinkling her nose. "How'd we drink this stuff? It's _horrible_!"

"We don't got to do it often. Way I figure it, we each drink one a year, on June 24. That's why I got as many as I did. Lifetime supply!"

She does the math. Twenty four beers, two of them. Twelve years. That doesn't seem like enough time. She leans in to kiss him again, murmuring "I hope we outlive our supply," against his mouth.

She will.


	59. 2034

**Well. Here it is. As promised, this is really and truly the last chapter. This has been insanely long, and I so appreciate all of you taking your time to read it and, often, comment. A few special thanks to eyeon who kept me honest with times and ages ("Shouldn't X by Y years old, now?" "Didn't X actually happen Z years ago?" – I have a feeling there may be some off in this chapter, too, although I **_**tried**_**); to motorpool who re-read and re-reviewed the WHOLE darn thing, leading me to a few "Oh yeah, dropped that plot thread" moments; to ****tia8206 w****ho came up with a few chapter names and helped me come to some sort of idea on James' relationship with Clementine (in the earliest version of this story, he was NEVER going to see her). **

**It's been a lot of fun, guys; sad to see it end. And I thought it would be a one-shot . . .**

**This chapter takes place in 2034. Let's just imagine people still text each other then, because that's how it starts.**

* * *

_**Friday, September 22, 2034  
Los Angeles, CA**_

The line is long, but the coffee shop's not all that crowded. Most folks head for the door after grabbing their drinks. Kate's phone chirps. A text from Aaron.

**I5 Santa Clarita. Traffic sucks. Be there when we get there. Meet u at re dinner?**

She got into town last night and planned to spend the day with him (and his new girlfriend! _Exciting_!). Traffic, combined with his late start, means she's had the day to while away. Hence, the coffee.

She's sliding her phone back into her bag when a teenage boy carrying a full coffee cup in each hand and bracing a giant cookie against his side with his elbow bumps into her. He manages not spill any coffee. "Excuse me," he says. "Sorry about that."

She's kind of sure it was her fault, looking down at her phone, drifting slightly out of the line. "No problem," she smiles at him. He reminds her a little of Aaron.

She hears a shrill whistle. The boy and Kate turn toward the whistler, who's got his pinkies stuck in either side of his mouth and has secured a table on the other side of the coffee shop. "Travis! Over here!" The whistler is probably the boy's – Travis's - dad.

Travis. Doesn't she know someone . . .? She looks closer. Travis's dad stands to help with the cups. He . . . _Well, I'll be damned_, she thinks. She leaves her spot in line.

"Well, I'll be damned," she says, approaching Jimmy.

"Kate!" he exclaims. He sets down his cup, and opens his arms to hug her.

How long has it been? Ten years? Fifteen? No, more than that. He looks remarkably the same. She sees a lot of gray at his temples, but the rest of his hair's so light, the gray's camouflaged. His forehead is bigger than she remembers it being. Otherwise, he looks the same.

She's glad she had her colorist go to work on her mane earlier this week. She's wearing glasses; he's not.

"Travis," Jimmy says, "this is Kate. She was a friend of your grandpa's. Friend of mine, too," he grins sheepishly. Yeah, that father/son thing doesn't ever stop being weird.

"Nice to meet you," Travis says, shaking her hand.

Travis was born after she moved from LA. That makes him, what? Fifteen? She struggles to remember Jimmy's older sons' names . . .Nick, right, and . . . Joe? John? Jasper? Something with a 'J' . . .

Travis starts to peel the Saran wrap from his cookie. While he's occupied, Kate asks Jimmy, "Is it just me, or do you tend to hang out in coffee shops when the rest of the world is hard at work?"

"It's just you," he laughs. "And, it's only when I have a sister with wedding drama." He darts his eyes at Travis, who's absorbed in his phone. _Does he know?_ Kate wonders

"I hear ya," she says. "I have the whole day free, and yet you'll notice I'm steering clear. I'm sure Cass would rope me into something."

"No doubt," he agrees. "God, the two of them? Cassidy and Rachel? I tell you what, that's a duo you don't want to get tangled up with."

"They're still close?" Kate asks, feeling slightly jealous.

"Thick as thieves. Rachel's always said Cass is like the sister she never had." He takes a sip of coffee, then leans in closer. He smirks. "Ironic, huh?"

"Does she know? Clementine? Did he ever tell her?"

Jimmy shakes his head. "Nope." Kate winds up to protest, to lodge a complaint against this great injustice. Jimmy reads her, though, and cuts her off. "It's just . . . there's never a good time, you know? 'Hey, you just graduated college, now wanna know who your dad really is?' It's not killing her to stay in the dark. Besides, she's not a whole lot older than I was when I found out the truth."

"The truth?" Kate huffs. "Jimmy, you _always_ knew who your parents were."

He shrugs. "How's Aaron doing?" he asks, calm and unblinking in that way she once found so unnerving in both him and his mother.

Touché.

She fumes, and he's momentarily distracted by his son. "Travis!" he yelps. "Holy crap, man, don't eat that whole cookie. Your mom would kill me if she knew . . ."

"Mom's OK with dessert, Dad."

"Mom has a thing about portion size, and that cookie's bigger than your face. She'd have a fit if she knew you were eating that. Give it to me."

Travis hands over the cookie. He and Jimmy tussle over it more. Kate still feels angry, heartbroken, and cheated somehow. How could Clem not know? How could he not tell her? How about Cass? What about her? And what about all James did for her? How about that, huh? She has a right to know.

"Aaron gonna be there tonight?" Jimmy says in the hazy background. The whole world just went hazy, because, holy shit, _Sawyer_ just walked in the front door. Young Sawyer. The Sawyer she remembers, swiping back his hair, strutting through the door. . . Jesus, back when they were bouncing through time, did they land thirty years in the future and make a little jaunt to LA? Just to mess with everyone's brains a little?

No. Ha ha. No, no, of course not. This is because she was thinking of him. Power of persuasion, that's what it is. Anyway, this guy, he's actually younger than the Sawyer she knew, she realizes now as he . . . heads straight for them. What the hell?

"Ha ha!" Jimmy claps his hands together. "They let people like you in here?" He stands and hugs the new guy, slapping him on the back a few times. Travis gets up, too, for a handshake. The new guy ruffles Travis's hair in return.

"Good to see you, Uncle Jimmy."

Jimmy turns to Kate. "You remember my nephew, Evan? He's Rachel's older son."

Kate's mouth is very dry. "Yeah, yeah. Hey." He was five when she saw him last? He smiles and nods at her.

"So, they let you out on parole, or what?" Jimmy asks Evan.

"Weekend pass," Evan laughs.

Jimmy notices Kate's confused look, and explains, "Evan's in his first year of residency."

"Oh," she says. In a small voice, "What specialty?" _Please do not say surgery. Please._

"Pediatrics," Evan answers. He turns to his uncle and cousin. "You guys ready to go? You know my mom'll go apeshit if we're late."

"She's a damn hypocrite," Jimmy mumbles. He turns to Kate, "See you tonight?" He points his thumb at Evan. "The doc here's our ride."

Kate nods. "Yeah, yeah, see you tonight." She swallows a lump in her throat. The doc. She misses him. She misses the one who called him that, too.

Her phone chirps. New text from Aaron:

**Hey, Ma. We're in LA. See you at the hotel in five? Love you.**

* * *

_**Saturday, September 23, 2034  
Los Angeles, CA**_

Jimmy deliberately works at the ends of his bowtie. He's taking his time, getting this just right. He slowly crosses the ends over, slowly loops an end up, slowly holds down the center, slowly folds the side over. All on purpose. He caught Lauren watching him in the mirror the minute he draped the tie over his neck.

When he's done, he makes eye contact in the mirror. "I still got it, huh?" he smirks at her.

"Mmmmm," she murmurs, stepping up behind him and resting her chin on his shoulder. "Nothing like a man who can tie his own tie." She strokes his cheek with the back of her hand. He turns his head to nuzzle her hand. She turns it over, and his kisses the palm. He turns from the mirror, faces her, and places his hands on her hips.

"You know," he says, pulling her against him and kissing her, "I got some time."

She kisses back, then stops. She swats his chest. "All three boys are downstairs at this very minute."

"All three of those boys lived under this roof for more than ten years, and I don't recall that stopping us."

"Joel and Nick will be gone again on Sunday, I think we can wait," Lauren says.

"I'm not sure I can," he presses her against him again.

"Besides, you don't want to be late. What does Clem want you there so early for anyway?"

Jimmy sighs. OK, he won't get any this afternoon, but surely tonight . . . He answers Lauren's question, "Beats me. Something about the photographers, maybe?"

"She'd ask Rachel or Anson if it had to do with the photographers."

Jimmy shrugs. "Who knows?" His duty is guestbook attendant. How difficult can that be?

* * *

He pulls the guestbook from the backseat, tucks it under his arm, and heads for the church. His dress shoes squeak when he walks. Someone points him upstairs, to the parlor, "The Bride's Room." Clem's there, sitting on a couch between two girlfriends. She looks gorgeous - fancy hair, makeup – fancier than he's ever seen her, probably. His little sis, all grown up. At least she's still in jeans and a button-down shirt. Her dress is hanging in the corner.

He bends down to kiss her cheek. He puts a hand to his chest. "You take my breath away," he says, and he kind of means it. "Now, what can I do for you?" He waves the guestbook. "As you can see, I'm on top of my duties. Ready to go."

Clem turns to her friends. "Can you guys give us a minute?" They fuss and peck over her for a few seconds, exclaiming over her hair and earrings and lip . . . liner? Gloss? Stick? Clementine rolls her eyes at the door after they leave.

Jimmy waits expectantly. Her fiancé has a drunk and belligerent uncle. Jimmy braces. Clem's going to ask him to watch out for the guy, keep him calm, keep him from ruining anything.

"Jimmy, I want you to walk me down the aisle."

"Yeah, sure, no problem." _I met him last night at the rehearsal dinner so I know who to watch out . . ._ "Uh, I'm sorry. What?"

She said it very clearly the first time, and the second is no different. "I want you to walk me down the aisle."

"I don't . . . I don't know. . . I. . . I thought you were going to walk by yourself."

"I decided I didn't want to do it alone."

"Well, I think if anyone should do it, your mom should, right?"

"No," she sets her lips, shakes her head firmly. She stares at him with his father's eyes. "If anyone should do it, my dad should, but he's not here, so I'm asking you. Please Jimmy. I've known you forever. I can barely remember a time before you were in my life. Besides, don't you think it would make him happy?"

"Who?" Jimmy's not an idiot. He knows who, he's just buying time.

"My dad."

"Uh. . . well, you know, I never . . . he never . . . never. . . he, uh, you know. . . never met." Jimmy closes his eyes, centers himself. Relaxed, he's able to put an actual sentence together. "I never met your dad, Clem. He was in that plane crash with Kate, remember?"

"Oh, stop with the horseshit, Jimmy."

"Clem, I . . ." what's he supposed to say? It's her wedding day. This isn't the right time (Uncle Miles told Claudia on their wedding day. "You _what?_ Are you a fuckin' idiot?," Dad had bellowed at him. She married him anyway, though). No, this isn't the right time. Although, when is?

Clementine hands over a piece of paper. It's yellowed, creased, rough. It's a letter. He sees his dad's handwriting, neat precise, almost feminine. Nothing at all like his father ever was. He misses him. That's not surprising. What's surprising how _much_ he misses him sometimes. Misses both of them. Dad was 79. Mom was 86. Long, full lives. Nothing tragic, circle of life, yada yada and all that bullshit. He didn't think he'd miss them as much as he does – sometimes. Life's too busy most of the times. But staring at his dad's handwriting, his heart leaps to his throat, and he feels tears spring to his eyes. His hand may even be shaking.

"Read it," Clementine instructs.

Jimmy clears his throat. "Dear Clementine," he begins. He can't do this. He can't read this. It's her wedding day. It's supposed to be all about her. All about Mike. Not this. Anything but this. "What is this?" he asks in a harsh tone he doesn't mean. He shakes the letter at her. False bravado.

She rolls her eyes and smiles. "Just read it."

Jimmy puffs out his cheeks, exhales. He can do this. He looks at the letter again. "You don't know who I am, but I know who you are. You are my daughter. I'm so sorry I never met you, but your mama told me once to write you a letter, and I'm doing that now. I don't know what she'll tell you about me, so I'll say a few honest things up front. I was in prison when she told me about you. I wish I could say that's my excuse for never seeing you. I wasn't a free man. But that's only partly true. The real truth is I didn't want to be a bad influence in your life. The bigger truth is that I didn't want the responsibility. I'm sorry about that. I have two other kids now, and I hope it won't hurt you when I say they . . ." Jimmy clears his throat, swallows the lump there, clears again. . . starts over . . . "when I say they mean the whole world to me. I pretty much think . . ." Jimmy stops. He looks up at Clementine, looks away from the letter. "This is nice, Clem, but I don't think it has anything to do with me." He simply can't read any more without dissolving into a puddly mess of tears.

"Keep reading," she says. He's not getting out of this. She folds her arms and glares at him.

"Easy, easy," Jimmy jokes, tap dancing for more time. "Let's not get all worked up, Bridezilla."

She snorts a laugh, but says, "You finish the letter."

"I . . ." Jimmy's hand is shaking again.

"Finish it, Jimmy."

He steadies his hand. He picks up close to where he left off. "They mean the whole world to me. I pretty much think that everything I do, I do for them. I want you to know that I think about you a lot. I do. Mostly when I'm alone, which isn't much these days. I was a coward for not ever meeting you, Clementine, and maybe one day, I'll get a chance to set that right. I hope I do. Until then, I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure your life is a good one. I know money can't ever be what you need from me. I know now that what you need is someone to come to your dance recitals and teach you to ride a bike and read to you and hold you when you're sick. I'm sorry I can't be that for you. But please know you are in my heart, always. Love, James Ford."

Tears roll down Jimmy's cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Clem. I'm sorry. . ." He's not sure what he's apologizing for. His good fortune that from the minute he was born (before that even, probably . . . definitely) he had Dad, and she _never_ did? That none of them have had the guts to come out and tell her? That it's her wedding day, and he's a blubbery mess? A middle-aged man with two sons already in college, crying over a man who's been dead sixteen years.

She puts a hand to his forearm. "You don't have to apologize, Jimmy. You . . . your family . . . I really don't remember a time you weren't in my life. Your parents paid for my college. Law school, too." She waves a hand. "This wedding, even."

"We should've told you, Clementine."

She shrugs. "It wasn't your responsibility. They should've, though – Mom, and Uncle Jim. I wish they had. Mom gave me that letter when I turned sixteen."

Jimmy sniffs. He wipes tears from his eyes. "When did you figure it out?"

"Not long after. Uncle Jim and James Ford had _remarkably_ similar handwriting."

"And you were OK with that? Knowing . . . and pretending you didn't? How? Why?"

"For the longest time," she says, "I wasn't sure what your mom knew. I thought Mom must've had an affair with Uncle Jim. That broke my heart. Mom was always saying people never stayed together forever, that was just a fairy tale . . .but your mom and dad . . . then this. I thought he cheated on her."

Jimmy laughs. "Yeah, me too." He thinks back to bringing Kate into their kitchen.

"Anyway, and I don't know who's the bigger idiot – me for not paying attention to it, or him for doing it in the first place . . ." She bends over the letter in his hand, she points to the top right corner. "He dated it," she says. "January 17, 1982. Then I started looking into things. There _was_ a James Ford on Aunt Kate's plane. His picture's on the Internet. I guess he kinda looks like Uncle Jim. He really looks like Evan."

"Yeah," Jimmy agrees.

"So, what? Time travel? Is that the story? That . . . really?"

He looks her right in the eye. "Clementine, I've known all this for about twenty-five years, and there are still days when I find it hard to believe. All evidence to the contrary. You being Exhibit A, probably."

"So, whattaya say, Jimmy? Walk me down the aisle?"

"Your mom's OK with that?"

"She's never had anything against you, Jimmy. And by the time it was all was said and done, she didn't have anything against him, either."

"It would be an honor."

* * *

Her friends hover and twitter around her. Cassidy gives her a hug, before one of the ushers steps up to escort Cass down the aisle to the front of the church. The friends giggle and fidget with their dresses. Jimmy roped Joel and Nick into manning the guestbook. Not difficult to do, as they both thought they could use it as a way to meet more girls. He spies them sitting in the last pew, craning their necks back at the bridesmaids. Hook up with a bridesmaid at a wedding. Such a cliché, but a good one.

The four bridesmaids wish Clem good luck and start their walk down the aisle. The wedding coordinator closes the door behind them.

He turns to Clementine. "Last chance to tell me to take a hike, sis," he says.

"Thank you, Jimmy. For everything," she says.

He holds out his arm. She takes it. He can see through the little square glass at the top of the wooden church door. The last bridesmaid is almost at the end of the aisle. Clem's on her tip toes, also peering through the glass. She's trying to catch a glimpse of Mike. As she should be. It's her wedding day.

The organ swells. He sees Cassidy stand in the front pew and the rest of the congregation follow.

Dad should be here, Jimmy thinks. He should be approaching seventy, not sixteen years in the grave. He should get to walk his daughter down the aisle. Except then, Jimmy wouldn't . . . _couldn't _. . . be here. Which doesn't strike Jimmy as a horrible thing, exactly. What _does_ strike him as horrible is no Joel, no Nick, no Travis . . . (no Rachel, no Evan, no Cole . . .)

"OK, you two ready?" the wedding coordinator whispers at them. They both nod. The coordinator opens the door to the church.

_All right, Dad_, he thinks. _Hope I do you proud_.

THE END

* * *

**OK, I set a goal to finish by Thanksgiving, and by golly, I did! **

**FYI, If you go back to chapter 54, you'll see the stuff that's mostly written (either actually typed or at least formed in my head) that didn't make the story. You can still vote, although the clear winner is the events of the Miles chapters (Juliet's 40th birthday, miscarriage, Miles and James fight, etc.) from James and Juliet's POV. So, I am going to do that as its own story, probably a bunch of really short chapters (some probably only 2-3 paragraphs long). I can't say when . . . but I'll probably start putting them up before Christmas, a great many of them are already written and then just got excised from other chapters, I just need to re-edit them so they don't read like flashbacks or memories. Anyway, check back on the site or sign up for an Author Alert or whatever if you are interested in seeing them. **

**Let me know what you thought, even if you've never left a review before now (and you can do so anonymously). I think I'll miss the random ego boosts as much as anything! ;-) Thanks so much, guys.**


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